


What we want

by mssdare



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Armitage Hux Needs A Hug, Asexuality, Asexuality Spectrum, Bad Sex, Consensual, Consensual Sex, Dom/sub Undertones, Domestic Discipline, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Kylo Ren Has Issues, Kylo Ren Needs a Hug, Loss of Parent(s), M/M, Masturbation, Medication, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Minor Character Death, Mutual Masturbation, Oral Sex, Recreational Drug Use, Self-Destruction, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Self-Medication, Sex, Sex Toys, Suicidal Thoughts, Unsafe Sex, Voyeurism, gray sexuality
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2019-11-01 10:13:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17865368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mssdare/pseuds/mssdare
Summary: Kylo is doing Community Service in a state-run assisted living facility outside NYC. He hates his job, his life, and mostly--himself. One of the patients in the facility is old Colonel Hux. His son, Armitage, is the most infuriating, stuck up man Kylo has ever met in his life.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a very self-indulgent story. I'm using a lot of personal references. I'm posting it as a WIP, bear with me. One more chapter to go :)
> 
> Many thanks to Sillygoose for betaing and to [ Kyluxtrashcompactor ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyluxtrashcompactor) for prereading and encouragement.
> 
> See [ the beautiful drawing ](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/DxShAsvWsAAzlnJ.jpg:large) that [ Katie's Ghost ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KatiesGhost) has made for this story!  
>  
> 
> CONTENT WARNINGS:  
> This story contains self-loathing, suicidal thoughts, self-harm, risky sexual behavior, self-destructive behavior, mental illness, mental problems, alcohol abuse, medication abuse, recreational use of drugs and medication.  
> The asexuality tag is also here for a reason, although it is NOT a typical asexual character nor behavior, perhaps self-sexual or gray-sexual would be a more appropriate tag. Although sex happens in this story and the gray-sexual person engages in sex, consensually, and—at times—with pleasure, don’t expect this to be a “love is the cure to your sexual problems” story either.  
> The Dom/sub tag refers to a discipline relationship, but not necessarily a sexual one. It’s not Daddy!kink either, but rather a loose take on a domestic discipline between a Dom and a sub.  
> To sum up, proceed with caution and don’t hate me. The labels I’m using in tags are mostly there because I can’t find ones that would suit this story better. Life, huh? 
> 
> PS. If you feel like I haven’t warned for something important, let me know in comments and I’ll add it.

(Drawing by Katie's Ghost)

 

The pavement outside the back entrance of Cedar Oak Assisted Living and Adult Care, where Kylo currently works, is cracked, and there are leaves of grass growing through the fissures, like patches of an unevenly shaved beard. Sitting on the steps Kylo tries to focus on those yellowed straws of grass, imagines them sprouting on his face in places where his own beard doesn’t grow, but his thought process keeps getting stuck, stopping and then starting again like a broken record, or a badly assembled engine.

The heat waves of anger that he’s been trying to quench here, outside of the building, so he doesn’t do anything stupid in front of the residents and staff, keep overflowing his mental boundaries, overwhelming him. It feels like buckets of boiling water being poured over his head and chest. He doesn’t know where the anger originated this time around, just mulls it over and over and keeps himself as still as possible.

 _Do. Not. Move. Even a single finger_ , he tells himself, still observing the grass in the fractured blacktop. He’s sure that if he allows himself to even breathe too deeply, something in him will snap, and the next thing he’ll know it will be blood and cut skin and bruised bones, and pain everywhere.

A good drink would help. It always does at times like this, when the anger inside Kylo is burning his guts, consuming his insides like an inferno. But drink is what got him cited in the first place, and as bad as he’s feeling right now in this pathetic situation, he’s not looking forward to replacing this community service sentence with a full-time stint in state prison.

He looks at his hands. They tremble significantly, which means he is still not fit to go back inside. He exhales and leans his head back, closing his eyes even though he knows it won’t help. Two hot tears escape the corner of his lids, but he doesn’t move to wipe them away. It’s better when they flow down—at least this gives him some kind of relief and he’s not circling around like a caged lion, destroying everything in his path.

The door behind him screeches open and steps shuffle and then falter.

“Excuse me,” a man says in an accent that drips blue blood and a snobbish attitude. “I hadn’t realized this was a resting area for the staff.”

There’s a kind of self-importance in the way this sentence has been uttered, an indication that this person is way above the status of a mere staff member, and also a hint of reprimand as if Kylo has been caught slacking.

And Kylo isn’t slacking. He isn’t even _staff_ per se. He’s sweeping the floors, changing sheets, cleaning up shit and piss, getting spit upon, shouted at, and sometimes cried on. Ninety days of community work in this local facility, which is basically a sad nursing home for those who have neither their own savings nor families to provide for them. This is Kylo’s sentence for his DUI offense, so perhaps he’s actually worse than a staff member, because he can’t exactly quit and not show up the next morning.

He doesn’t say anything back to the owner of the snobby accent, but he does crack his eye open when he hears the unmistakable zip of a lighter being flicked and then an inhale of smoke and the burn of cigarette paper.

Kylo’s seen the tall redheaded guy in the facility every single day since he started working here. He recognizes him as the son of colonel Brendol Hux—resident of room 409C, bed by the wall. Hux, Jr. is wearing a teal-colored tailored suit, crisp white shirt, and expensive shoes. Surely, this guy could afford better living conditions for his father than Cedar Oak. Not that the old man would notice, perhaps, since he’s half-deranged after the stroke, but at least somewhere where real, qualified nurses wouldn’t allow for the man to lie in his own piss for hours and would treat his bedsores. Kylo winces at the memory of wiping the old, stinky skin earlier on. The elderly have that horrible smell that makes Kylo think of the inside of a purse; in his childhood years his nanny would spit-soak a handkerchief to wipe ice-cream stains from his face, and it smells a little like that, too.

Kylo plucks a single blade of grass from between the cracks and winds it around his finger. If the grass weren’t so fragile he’d be able to wrap it tighter, but it’s satisfying anyway to watch his finger being divided into two parts—the one with blood pooling at the tip and the one that’s slightly whiter. He appreciates the little sting that’s left in his skin when he snaps the grass and lets it flutter away in the breeze.

The redhead exhales smoke in silence and leans against the wall, looking like James Dean or some other character from an old rebel movie. All he needs is to put one foot on the wall in a typical cowboy pose to make the impression exact.

“So,” the redhead says, “you haven’t answered my question. What are you doing out here?”

Kylo feels his anger coming back in full force.

He stands up and barrels through the door, slamming it shut behind himself as hard as he can. If he startled the man—good. He grabs his hoodie and leaves the facility even though he should stay for at least three more hours. Fuck it. They can lock him up in prison for all he cares. That’s where he belongs anyway. If it weren’t for his mother’s expensive lawyer and her contacts he wouldn’t have gotten off with just community work. He can only be glad that no one else got hurt when he wrapped his car around that tree.

He walks the five miles to the nearest station, then takes the train and then subway to his place.

Inside his apartment in Woodside, Queens, he’s greeted with the acrid smell of sour milk and rotten fruit. He grabs a plastic bag from under the sink and shoves everything from the kitchen counter inside: bowls and plates and spoons included. All of it. Then he goes outside again to toss it in the dumpster.

He could hit the gym, burn some of that anger away, but he feels vindictive toward himself, wants to punish himself in any way possible, and if the gym makes him feel better he surely doesn’t deserve it. He lets himself back into his apartment, pads the few steps it takes him to get from the hall to the kitchenette, and bends over the sink to slide open the window and air out the odor of decay. There’s one last dirty bowl left on the counter that he’s missed, making a mockery of his earlier efforts to tidy up. He grabs it and throws it hard into the wall. It smashes into tiny shards and one of the pieces ricochets off the backsplash and hits Kylo in the face.

 _Good_ , he thinks. If it cuts him, it will match the ugly scar that’s bisecting his face from the accident he had while drunk driving. He can see the effects of his failure to control his emotions every day he looks into the mirror. Or he would if there were any mirrors left in his barren one-bedroom apartment.

There’s no alcohol left in the cupboards—Kylo’s family made sure to dispose of it—so he takes his keys and wallet and goes out again, buys bourbon at the nearest liquor store and starts drinking it straight from the bottle as he ambles off the elevator on the fourth floor, too impatient to wait until he’s safely hidden behind his door.

The burn in his throat and his stomach quenches the flames of fury consuming him, and after a few more gulps he’s calm enough to walk to the end of the hallway, enter his apartment, lie flat on the living room floor, and watch the overhead lamp as the world swirls and swirls and swirls around him.

 

#

The redhead—Hux, Jr.—always seems to be present in his father’s room whenever Kylo needs to mop the floors or change the sheets or whatever. It seems unnecessary as he never speaks to his father; he just sits stiffly on a folded plastic chair by the wall, working on his laptop, hitting the keys in furious tap-tap-tap. If he ever glances up from his laptop it’s to observe the old man with an impassive stare. Not that Hux, Sr. could do anything about it—he’s almost totally paralyzed after his stroke and not responding much. Hux, Jr. never tends to his father; he doesn’t feed the old man or read to him or even push the hair off his sweaty brow, leaving all tasks to the nurses or, sometimes, Kylo.

When Kylo moves his way, he stands up and leaves, his elegant shoes making footprints on the freshly mopped floor. Today Kylo has been also been burdened with the task of bathing the patients. Technically it’s not his job—one of the regular trained staff should do it—but they deemed Kylo capable of moving the patients around, as he’s stronger than most of the other staff and he can maneuver even the heavier patients with ease. As unpleasant as the job is, he’s getting used to the smell and feel of old skin, urine and feces. But today he’s got a hangover and everything makes him nauseated. He hopes he won’t throw up all over the colonel. To distract his thoughts he tries to focus on the mechanical aspect of the job, wiping the gray-brown wrinkles with a wet cloth, up and down, left to right, front to back. He tries to masochistically enjoy the gross, punishing factor of this job.

He’s nearly done with colonel’s sponge bath when Hux, Jr. returns, taking his usual place in the plastic chair. Kylo turns to see the guy staring at Kylo’s hands, disgust and disdain plain on his face.

“Here,” Kylo says, anger springing back to life like an old friend. He pushes a plastic tub with dirty water, suds and sponge, into the redhead’s hands. “Hold this while I dry him off.”

He should have put the tub on the cart they use here for this purpose, but he enjoys the way the colonel’s son’s mouth clenches. He’s got full, defined lips in a lovely shade of pink, and when he grits his teeth it makes his cheekbones even more prominent.

“Do you want me to shave him?” Kylo asks. He’s good at this, and colonel’s patchy red-gray beard is starting to get out of control.

“Sorry?” the son asks. He looks awkward holding that tub of water.

“I can shave him if you think he’d like that?”

“If he’d like that,” Hux, Jr. repeats after Kylo. His eyes grow cold like frosty emeralds. “No,” he says. And then he adds, as if as an afterthought, “Thank you for the offer, though.”

Kylo shrugs. He doesn’t care either way. He takes off the latex gloves, throwing them in the trash, packs up his supplies, and liberates the colonel’s son from the bowl of water. The redhead’s fingers are very smooth and cold when they brush Kylo’s.

 

#

Outside it’s drizzling, the kind of light but persistent rain that makes sure that you’re soaked through, and Kylo sighs, pulling his hood up. He starts walking. He’s tired as fuck, and now that the hangover has subsided finally, he just wants to sleep. He’s too exhausted and resigned to even be angry, and isn’t that ironic that he has to feel really miserable in order to feel better?

A black BMW slows to a stop next to him and a window rolls down.

“Do you need a ride?” the crisp accent asks, and Kylo wants to say, “No,” but he’s really too tired to walk.

“Suit yourself,” the voice says when Kylo doesn’t respond quickly enough, and the window begins to roll up.

“Wait! Yes,” Kylo says hastily. He hears the click of the door unlocking, and a second later he settles inside the dry, luxurious interior of the car, trying not to drip too much water anywhere. “Thanks,” he says.

Hux, Jr. doesn’t answer, focused on the road ahead as he accelerates. “Where to?” he asks when they reach the first intersection.

Kylo shrugs. “Any station will do.” He bites at his thumbnail. It’s short but the skin keeps catching and it’s annoying him terribly. “I need to get to the subway.”

“Don’t you want a ride to the city, then? Traffic is light, so it’ll be quicker.”

Kylo thinks of his apartment, of the bare walls and bare floors awaiting him, and shudders. “I’ve got nothing to hurry up to,” he mumbles, and he leans his head back on the headrest. He could sleep right here, it’s so warm and soft, the low hum of the engine like a sweet lullaby. He closes his eyes just for a moment.

“Is here all right?”

Kylo blinks.

“Were you asleep?”

Kylo notices that Hux, Jr.’s voice is nice when it’s low, the tones hushed in the luxurious interior of the car. He looks at the man’s face—he’s always so closely shaved, hair meticulously coiffed, facial expression perfectly impassive. Kylo wishes he could be so put together, even if Hux, Jr. seems to be cold-hearted and stiff.

“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “Yes, sorry. I didn’t mean to. Long day. And yeah, here’s fine. Thank you.”

He unfolds himself from the car seat, leaving the comfortable warmth of the vehicle behind. He leans down to say, “Thanks,” once more before he closes the door.

Outside the rain is still drizzling, so Kylo pulls his hood over his head and walks quickly to the subway. He’s shaking again, whether from the cold, the hangover, or general tiredness he doesn’t know. He just has to endure the ride home and then he’ll be able to sleep.

He drops his keys twice before he finally manages to open his door. God, he’s so tired. He doesn’t even take his clothes off, apart from the damp hoodie and shoes. He just crawls to his bed and wraps all the blankets he owns tightly around himself. He wants to sleep so badly.

#

Four hours later he still isn’t asleep. He shivers inside his blankets, then is too hot and pulls them away, only to get cold again. He’d like to watch TV to sleep but he doesn’t have one, not after he crushed his old one in a fit of rage. Actually, apart from his cracked phone, he doesn’t own anything anymore—he’s destroyed _everything_ , and he doesn’t have enough money to replace his TV, his laptop, mirrors, lamps, chairs… He won’t ask his parents for help either. He lost his right to do it when he said he wished them dead. Besides, at twenty-nine he should be able to care for himself. He doesn’t have a job that pays enough, though, not anymore, and whatever savings he used to have were spent on bail and clothes for court. At least he’s got a roof over his head and doesn’t have to worry about the rent, as his mother paid it upfront for him for the rest of the year.

By 5:00 a.m. he gives up on sleep and gets up, drags himself to the bathroom, shaking violently, and sits in the bathtub. The water must be boiling because his skin reddens from it, and hot mist rolls over the tub, but he can’t feel the heat of it. The bright bathroom light is offensive to his eyes, but he feels like his eyes hurt even more when he closes them, so he stares at a shampoo bottle, reading the ingredients over and over again without really understanding what he’s looking at. The walls seem to be moving slightly, shadows growing in the periphery of Kylo’s vision, and he curls up on himself, drags his knees up to his chest, hugging them tight. He licks his knees and then bumps his nose on them. He feels tears welling in his eyes, easing the sting of the dryness a little.

He only leaves the tub when the heat makes his heart rate pick up too much, his cheeks and temples throbbing in rhythm with his racing pulse from the boiling water. He’s still cold inside, though, but there’s nothing he can do about it. He manages to fall asleep for a moment right before the alarm in his phone goes off. He still has 31 days of community service left. After that he doesn’t know what he’ll do. Perhaps not get up at all anymore, ever again.

#

Hux, Jr. is in his usual spot when Kylo enters the room to clean up. He looks up from his laptop and acknowledges Kylo with a nod of his head, then gets back to typing.

Kylo first takes care of Mr. Tarkin on the bed under the window, who is agitated and insists no one has given him lunch.

“You all want me to starve, stealing my food!” he grumbles.

“I’ll bring your lunch in a moment,” Kylo says, eyeing the emptied dishes stacked near the bed. It’s nearing 4:00 p.m. and it’s close to dinnertime.

Hux, Jr. snorts. “He’s had two lunches already.”

Kylo doesn’t argue with Mr. Tarkin, though, as there’s no point—the old man won’t remember it. So he moves on with his work, trying to ignore Tarkin’s angry muttering. Just like the colonel, he’s bedridden and can’t do much more than rail against injustice, real and imaginary.

The colonel seems to be in worse shape today, too, even less responsive than usual, but Hux, Jr. doesn’t seem worried, so Kylo goes about his movements and swiftly changes the colonel’s diaper and then the stained sheets. There’s a plate full of mush and a Nutridrink that hasn’t even been opened sitting on the bedside table, and Kylo frowns.

“You should try to make him at least drink that,” he says to Hux, Jr., nodding to the small bottle.

Hux, Jr. looks up from his laptop again, stops typing. “Excuse me?”

“He’s poorly today,” Kylo says, as a way of explaining. “He needs to eat.”

“Noted.” Hux gets back to his work.

With a sigh Kylo opens the bottle, sticks a straw in it, and brings it to colonel’s mouth, but without much success. The man swallows a little but then averts his face with difficulty. Oh well, it isn’t Kylo’s job anyway. He packs the dirty sheets into the hamper and rolls them to the laundry room instead.

#

The BMW stops again next to Kylo walking to the station. This time the window doesn’t even open. Kylo rolls his eyes but takes Hux, Jr. up on the offer and slides inside the car. His legs feel as if they weigh a thousand tons, his eyes hurt, and he’s practically sleepwalking, so he won’t decline this offer of a lift in the warm car, even if it’s not raining today.

“Thanks,” he says.

“Armitage,” Hux, Jr. says as he drives off.

“Sorry?”

“That’s my name. Armitage.”

“Kylo,” Kylo says, not commenting on the oddity of the man’s name. God knows people comment a lot on Kylo’s on any given occasion.

“I know,” Armitage says, and of course he does—Kylo has a nametag attached to his work uniform.

They drive in silence for a moment, with Armitage focused on the road, although he seems preoccupied with something, biting his lips and then pursing them.

Kylo finds himself transfixed with that look—Armitage really has lovely lips, gentle, not at all matching his severe demeanor.

“Do you have sex, Kylo?” Armitage asks, and Kylo almost chokes on his own spit, because _what kind of a question is that_?

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Are you active sexually?” Armitage’s eyes are still on the road, not a muscle in his face twitches.

“Is this… Is this a philosophical question—like, do I _ever_ have sex? Or do I have a significant other that I have sex with? Or are you asking me if I’d sleep with you?”

Kylo can’t be sure in the low light in the car, but he thinks that Armitage’s cheeks are slightly reddened when he says, “All that.”

“I…” Kylo sits back and takes a breath. “Yes, I do have sex. Occasionally. There’s nobody… I’m not in a relationship right now.” He can’t actually remember the last time it happened. He must have been drunk. He very much doubts his partner remembers it either.

“And the other one?” Armitage’s gaze darts to Kylo swiftly before he turns to look at the road again.

“O-kay?” Kylo says. It sounds like a question because he’s not sure this is a good idea. But neither is going home and pretending he’s got a life. He may as well bang this rich stuck-up guy. Armitage sure is attractive enough. Actually, when Kylo thinks about it, Armitage is more than attractive—he’s quite stunning with his golden red hair, green eyes framed with eyelashes so lightly colored they look almost white, and his slender, tall body. The nervous, tight energy of total control that he emits is also something Kylo very much appreciates. This is something he’s always been drawn to, something he doesn’t possess at all.

Armitage nods slightly and looks at Kylo again for a brief moment. “So you’d be inclined to come with me tonight?”

“Is there a pun in this?” Kylo laughs. This is surreal.

Armitage’s brows pinch together in an expression of annoyance or maybe embarrassment. “Not intentional,” he says. His lips twitch as if he’s subduing a smile. “But yes.”

“Sure,” Kylo says. “I’ll go.” He motions to Armitage. “With you. To have sex with you.”

Armitage nods once and then the road gets his full attention again. Kylo’s dick is half-hard because it’s been so long since anyone expressed an interest in him—not since he’d fucked up his last relationship (And wow, has it been two years already since then?)—and because Armitage is so out of Kylo’s league he wouldn’t have dared approach him first.

Armitage drives them to the city, because _of course_ he lives on the Upper West Side. He even has a fucking car elevator to the garage under his building. Kylo, in his old jeans and the leather bomber jacket that he’s thrown over his hoodie today, is so out of place in the dark wood and marble hall that he cringes at the sight of himself in the hall’s shiny mirror.

Armitage opens the door to his apartment and then tosses the keys into elegant wooden bowl standing on a table next to the door. He hangs Kylo’s jacket in a small hall closet and mentions for him to go further inside. The apartment is the perfect epitome of New York style—stark-white open-plan kitchen, bookshelves and even a brick wall in the living room opposite the kitchen. The place isn’t too big, and there are probably only two bedrooms, but by New York standards it’s _massive_. It looks as if it were designed as a set for a photo shoot—there’s no personal touch to it, no photos of family and friends, no clothes lying around, no objects on the furniture other than decorative art pieces that look as if they came with the place. Even the books look well too organized to have been read. There’s an ice-blue couch in the middle of the room, and Armitage motions for Kylo to sit down.

“Would you like something to drink?” he asks, going to the fridge and pulling out a small glass bottle of an orange-colored smoothie.

Kylo would kill for a beer, but he knows exactly how that would go, so he shakes his head no.

Armitage walks back with his smoothie and sits on an armchair opposite Kylo.

“So,” he says, placing the smoothie bottle on the gray steel and glass coffee table in front of him. “Before anything happens, I want to state clearly that you can say no to anything I propose. No hard feelings. I’ll call you a cab and we’ll call it a night.”

Kylo cocks his head. “This sounds like you’re going to ask for some kinky shit.”

“And if I am?” Armitage leans forward, placing his elbows on his knees.

Kylo is intrigued. Which is… nice? He’s not felt anything but rage and despair for so long now that this curiosity is like a fresh gust of air, like a spoonful of water after a drought—not enough to quench the thirst but a blessing anyway. He looks into Armitage’s green eyes when he says, “Well, that depends on what kind of kinky shit we’re talking about.”

Armitage looks down. There’s color on his cheeks again, even if he looks as composed as ever. He licks his lips. “I dislike sex,” he says. And before Kylo has a chance to say anything he holds up his hand. “To be precise, I dislike participating in the act. I very much enjoy looking at sex, thinking about it, reading about it. But I don’t want to be part of it. I abhor kisses, touching, any sexual attention I might receive from anyone but myself. I do enjoy orgasms, though.”

“So, how do I fit the picture?” Kylo asks. He wouldn’t have been invited here if Hux didn’t want something from him. “If you’re… self-sexual? Is that the right term?”

Armitage frowns. “I guess you can call it that, although I always thought that this term implies that I am attracted to myself, which I’m not. Quite the opposite, actually. As to your question—how do you fit into this scenario? I would very much love to watch you pleasure yourself. Would that be something you’d be into?”

Kylo feels heat in his belly. His cock has been half-interested all the way here, and now it’s fully hard, pushing painfully on the seam of his jeans. He’s sober, he’s with this classy, attractive man who wants to watch him jerk off, and he thinks, _Why not?_

“Yes,” he says. “I’m into it.” When nothing happens after a few moments he asks, “Here?”

“Here’s good,” Armitage says.

This should be awkward. Kylo has always been self-conscious about his body. But he enjoys this objectification way more than he’s expected. It’s a show, but he doesn’t have to practice or try too hard for it. He just opens his jeans, pushes them down a little, along with his underwear, and grips his hard cock in his fist, giving it a few pumps.

He looks up at Armitage, who sits motionless on the armchair, posture perfect and composure intact, but watching, watching Kylo with his green, weird eyes with so much intensity that Kylo feels as if he’s envelopedin this attention.

He should have asked Armitage if he’d be all right with the weird stuff Kylo needs in order to come—grip a bit too hard on his cock, fingers twisting his nipples to the point of pain. He won’t stop now to ask about it, so he’ll just go with it and hope that he doesn’t disgust Armitage in any way.

He licks his palm, sticking his tongue far out, flattening it to the middle of his hand. He doesn’t intend to make it slutty, he’s going more with his own conception of what’s hot and what isn’t. Armitage makes some small sound, one that Kylo wouldn’t hear if he weren’t so attuned to this moment, and Kylo shudders, his cock bobbing, precome moistening its tip. He can see Armitage swallow and blink.

“I’ll need…” Kylo says, gripping the hem of his hoodie, pulling it up over his head and casting it away. “Sorry.”

“You’re stunning,” Armitage says. He sounds drunk but he’s still in perfect control of his body—back stiff, face stony. Only the color high on his cheeks betrays that he's affected.

The praise does something to Kylo, tugs on his nerves everywhere simultaneously, and it doesn’t take much after that. Just thinking of Armitage’s lush lips wrapped around Kylo’s dick, or his elegant, long fingers opening Kylo up, or his condescending tone when he addresses Kylo. It’s this last thing that tips Kylo over the edge. He gasps and grips his nipple hard, pinching it and twisting harshly. The pain mixes with the pleasure of his orgasm, prolonging it, making him see stars and hear static for a long moment. He keeps his eyes on Armitage the whole time, even if he doesn’t see him really, not when he’s flying high on the pleasure of his orgasm. He can see the outline of Armitage’s cock straining against the trousers of his suit. He likes the way Armitage’s lips have parted, the way his eyes have darkened and cheeks have colored even more than before.

Armitage takes a few breaths—measured ones—one, two, three, and then he gets up, walks to the kitchen island, and brings Kylo a roll of paper towels so he can clean himself up. Kylo’s still coming down from his orgasm, and he shudders when he gently dabs the paper on the tip of his cock after he’s taken care of the mess on his stomach. His nipple smarts and he enjoys the pain. He lets his eyes close for a second, and after a while he feels a gentle touch on the side of his face.

“You’ll falling asleep on me again, Kylo.” Armitage’s voice is soft, his hand warm and smooth on Kylo’s cheek, nearly touching the scar on his face.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “Sorry, I’m not sleeping well lately.”

“I’d let you sleep here, but I bet that your back would curse me in the morning. This couch isn’t made for napping.”

Kylo’s brain is too fuzzy to decipher whatever Hux is saying. Is he asking Kylo to stay? Or to leave? He picks up his phone, discards notifications about missed calls from his mother, and checks the nearest train to his place. “What will you do now?” he asks when he’s zipping his jeans back up. “Will you—what—jerk off to the memory of me masturbating?”

Armitage doesn’t meet his eyes. “Pretty much, yes,” he admits.

“That’s…” Kylo doesn’t know how to finish this. Nice? Hot? Sad? He goes for “…good. See you around, then?” He winces, because who uses such _idiotic_ sentences?

But Armitage nods and smiles a little.

#

Back in his place Kylo wishes he at least had a better phone, one with speakers good enough to listen to some music. He could use his headphones, but he’s scared to be cut off from the sounds of the apartment, convinced that ghosts would come and take him unaware, break him if he loses his sense of surroundings. He’s always been scared of that, even though he knows it’s not real.

But the silence in his apartment is equally disturbing. He lies on his bed and replays the evening back in his head, every little thing—Hux’s eyes darkening with lust, Hux’s long fingers caressing that smoothie bottle, Hux’s delicate touch on Kylo’s cheek. He sleeps deeply until morning. When he wakes up, it’s to the tightness in his chest loosening a little and his eyes stinging way less than usual.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, read the warnings and tags for this story as most of the warnings are relevant for this chapter (!). Let me know if you feel like I should warn specifically for something else.  
> Thank you for all the comments - they keep me going! <3

When Kylo arrives at room 409C on Monday, he finds the bed on the left empty, sheets done up neatly, waiting for another resident to take the place of Colonel Hux.

“What happened?” Kylo asks a passing staff member—C. Phasma, her nametag says. “Where’s the colonel?” What he really wants to ask is where’s Armitage, but this will have to do.

“Colonel Hux? He had another stroke last night. He was taken to New York-Presbyterian.”

“Oh,” Kylo says. It’s not as if he cares about the old man. He’s sorry he won’t see Armitage again. He hoped… Well, he doesn’t know what he hoped for. He’s been getting flashbacks from Friday evening with Armitage—of jerking off for him, of Armitage’s half-parted lips, the unmistakable bulge in his suit pants, of the way Armitage said, “You are stunning.” He suspected this was a one-time experience, but now that he’s sure of it, it’s a blow.

He thanks Phasma and goes about his work for the day, cleaning and wiping and cleaning again.

“Oh, Kylo?” an assistant at the front desk says,when he’s leaving after his shift is over. “Colonel Hux’s son has left an envelope for you.”

“What is it?” Kylo asks, extending his hand for the letter cautiously, as if he suspects it’s going to blow up.

The receptionist shrugs. “I don’t know. A thank-you note? Or a tip for taking care of his father.”

Kylo’s ears grow hot, and he shudders at the implication that Armitage could have _paid_ _him for his services_. He doesn’t care how common it is to get a tip from the relatives of a patient here. He hopes to all hell it’s just a thank-you note. He takes the envelope and pockets the letter without opening it. He’ll look at it later, when he’s alone. Just in case there _is_ money there.

There’s no sleek BMW waiting for him while he walks to the train station. He endures the ride home in silence, trying not to scoff at people invading his personal space. It’s rush hour—but it’s always crowded no matter the time of day—so he can’t complain. At home he makes himself dinner: boiled noodles, then fried in a pan. It’s not healthy, nor sophisticated, but it tastes good, especially the crispy bits. The downside is now Kylo’s whole apartment smells like burnt oil. He sits on the floor between the cupboard and kitchen island and eats the noodles from the pan, because he’s quite sure there aren’t any paper plates left, and he’s broken all the porcelain ones. He takes the envelope from his pocket and turns it in his hand, trying to feel its contents, but whatever is inside is quite thick and he can’t tell if it’s just a card, or money in a card.

He should wash the pan. He should wash his hair too, because it smells like the disinfectant they use at Cedar Oak and the fried oil. He should at least brush his teeth. But he can’t be bothered. He leaves the pan on the floor and goes to the bedroom, crawls under the covers in his dirty clothes, and places the envelope next to his bed. He’s already damaged the elegant paper. It’s wrinkled a bit, and there’s an oil stain at one corner.

He closes his eyes.

Sleep doesn’t come, and Kylo isn’t surprised, not tonight. But it’s still nice to be buried under a pile of blankets, lying motionless like this. He imagines he’s a chameleon or a crocodile, so still he looks frozen, resting even if he’s still alert. Sometime later he rolls on his back. The tears that trickle down from the corners of his eyes land in the shells of his ears and he hates that wet feeling.

“Why are you weeping _again_ , Ben?” his father used to ask. “What is it this time around?” And Leia would add,“You know what my grandma used to say when I cried as a child?”

“That you’d run out of tears and wouldn’t have any left for the time when something really tragic happened,” Kylo—Ben then—would mumble, because he knew that story by heart.

Turns out Leia was wrong: no matter how many tears Kylo shed there were always more.

Kylo rolls on his stomach, pressing his face into the pillow that’s greasyfrom his hair and damp from his sweat. _He can’t go on,_ he thinks. He just can’t push through another night, another day after that. He won’t get up. He won’t go on.

#

He does go on, as always, although at this point he doesn’t know why he even bothers. He sleeps on his way to Cedar Oak and misses his stop, then has to walk an additional mile and arrives late, which earns him a _look_ from the managing nurse who makes a note in his file about hours served.

Mr. Tarkin accuses Kylo of stealing his food again, and Kylo laughs, a bit cruelly, because it’s either this reaction or shouting at the old man. It’s not the poor guy’s fault he’s demented. Still, Kylo can’t settle down after the exchange. His hands shake so much he tips over the bucket with dirty water and has to wipe everything clean again. A man from room 104 has soiled himself, and Kylo just can’t change him—he will be sick. He can’t do it. Not today. He needs to run away. He can’t do it.

“Kylo?” Phasma says, as she enters the room and sees Kylo sitting on the floor by the window. She’s so put together, so perfect in her crisp uniform. “Are you all right, honey? Maybe you should take a day off.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Kylo grits out, and maybe it comes off way more aggressive than he intended because Phasma frowns, holding up her hands.

“With such an attitude you should really head home, and now. We don’t need this here.”

Kylo wants to argue but Phasma is used to working with guys like him—sent here for the time being for their petty crimes. He needs to leave before he does something irreparable, like destroy Cedar Oak’s already old and battered equipment or hurt a patient. He balls his hands into fists, digging his fingernails into his palms. He turns around and stumbles out of the facility before he can change his mind. Phasma can clock him out.

He doesn’t go home. Instead he rides the train to its final stop, then gets out and walks back to the city. After what feels like hours of walking, he finds himself in a neighborhood he recognizes more or less. It’s dark and late, it must be 10:00p.m. already, and Kylo really can’t say what’s happened to the hours between him leaving Cedar Oak and now. So he’s lost a large chunk of time, again.

There’s a small line in front of one of the clubs he passes, and he joins the waiting people, then gets inside where the place is packed already, music blasting through the speakers. Kylo pushes through a sea of sweaty bodies to the bar.

“Whiskey, straight,” he tells the bartender, and he turns to watch the main scene, where a pink-haired and masked DJ is managing the console.

“Chocolate? Candy?” someone next to him asks.

“Got any Xanax?” Kylo asks. He wouldn’t mind dulling the ache and dark panic in himself, if only a bit.

He passes a twenty to the dealer and takes the two blue diamond-shaped pills.

“Careful mixing alcohol with these,” the guy says, nodding to the whiskey the bartender has placed next to Kylo, but Kylo just shoots the dealer a look and washes down the pills with the amber liquid. It burns his throat, but he holds it well. He stands by the bar, sipping the rest of the whiskey and waiting for the drugs to kick in. It feels like it takes ages, but when they finally do and the pain loosens, washed away like sand by ocean waves, Kylo wants to whoop and jump for joy.

He goes on the dance floor, and when someone offers him a drink, he takes it.

The rest of the night is a blur, and it comes in flashes—a body rubbing against him, more alcohol, some more pills, a dirty toilet, an equally dirty dick in his mouth, him spluttering thick semen on the tiled floor.

He throws up later, but it must be way, way later, because he’s outside on the street, and it’s light out. First workers are already heading to their offices. Kylo’s throat hurts, but he doesn’t know if it’s from the rough blow job or throwing up, or maybe he’s actually coming down with something. His lips are split and swollen, but he doesn’t remember a fight. His hoodie is gone, and his T-shirt is torn at the neckline, but he’s got his leather jacket at least.

“Fuck,” he says and doubles over to dry heave again. The pain in his temples is excruciating. He wipes his mouth and nose with the back of his hand and starts to walk home. He’s so fucked up, his thought process shot to hell, and maybe it’s a good thing because he doesn’t much care for himself right now.

#

When he gets home he’s chilled to the bone and his teeth rattle. The elevator is out of order and he has to take the stairs, and thinks that he won’t make it to his front door—he’s so tired, so fed up with himself, so fucking done. He wants to stop existing, badly, and if that could just “happen” for him he’d take it. He’s just too much of a coward to act on it, and he hates himself even more for his lack of willpower. He sits on the stairs, half way to his floor, rubs at a stain on a chipped step, and then slowly crawls the rest of the way on his hands and knees, because he can’t walk anymore. He’s got blisters on his feet from all the walking and dancing and is only feeling them now.

His apartment is silent, oppressive in its emptiness. He collapses on the bed, on his stomach, one hand still on the floor. Armitage’s envelope is there, and Kylo might as well… he might as well see that money now, feel dirty inside and out. And indeed, his hands are awfully dirty, sticky and stained, nails black. They smell, and he must smell, too, but he deserves to reek like shit if he _is shit._

The paper gives, eventually, and Kylo can finally see the contents of the envelope. There’s no money inside, just a simple note written on a thick, cream-colored, expensive piece of paper.

 _I’m sorry for not contacting you but, as you probably know already, my_ _father_   _had another stroke and had to leave Cedar Oak suddenly. I very much enjoyed your company the other night and would love to see you again if you’d be amenable. Armitage._

There’s a number on the reverse of the note and Kylo digs out his phone from his jeans pocket. It’s a miracle he hasn’t lost it or that it hasn’t been stolen. Perhaps no one wanted that old piece of shit. Kylo dials the number and waits, and waits, and waits. The call goes to voicemail and Kylo disconnects. He lies down and pretends he doesn’t exist.

The sharp ring of an incoming call startles him. He stares at the row of numbers on the display, and then finally swipes the bar to answer the call.

“Someone has just called me from this number,” a voice with a crisp accent says.

Kylo’s heart is beating so fast he’s almost choking with it. “Yes,” he says. It comes out like a screech. “It’s… It’s Kylo. You said, in your note, to give you a call. And so… I did. Call.”

“At 5:00 a.m.?” Armitage laughs and Kylo can’t take it. The sob that escapes him is short, but it must have been loud enough that Armitage heard it before Kylo managed to cover his mouth with his hand.

“Kylo, are you all right?” Armitage’s voice has lost all laughter. It’s serious and gentle when he asks, “What’s happening?”

And Kylo can’t stop crying because he’s crashing and hungover and lost, and he shouldn’t have called, but he gives Armitage his address when Armitage tells him to, and then listens to Armitage’s soothing voice when he keeps talking. “Good. You’re doing great, Kylo. Can you lie down and wait for me, please? Don’t hang up.”

Kylo must drift off while listening to Armitage’s stream of reassuring words, because he’s jerked awake by a sharp knock on the door. He doesn’t get up. Whoever it is might as well go to hell. The door opens (has he left it open?), and the sound of footsteps follows.

“Fuck,” Armitage says, and how does he make even cuss words sound elegant? “Kylo, what’s wrong?” Cool hands touch Kylo’s face, and he wants to cry more but he’s got no tears left.

“My mother was right,” he says. “I’ve used them all.”

Those cool hands tilt his face up. “What are you on, Kylo?” Armitage asks, frowning and looking alarmed.

 _God_ , Kylo thinks. He’s so dirty and must smell so bad, and Armitage is touching him, not even looking disgusted. He shakes his head against Armitage’s hands. “I don’t know. Pills. Whiskey. Vodka. I don’t remember.”

Armitage sighs and makes Kylo look at him, takes his phone and shines the phone’s flashlight straight into Kylo’s eyes, then slips his hand under Kylo’s sweaty T-shirt, placing a cool hand over his heart. Kylo tries not to think about how he’s soiling this elegant man.

Armitage withdraws his hand and Kylo immediately feels the loss of this touch as if he’s been denied a lifeline.

“All right. Your pulse seems steady enough, and you’re reacting to light normally, so I’m not calling an ambulance. Whatever it is you’re coming down from, you’ll just have to deal with it. I’d give you a Valium, but since you’ve got no idea what you’ve taken, it’s best that you don’t take anything more.” He stands up and goes to Kylo’s kitchenette. Kylo wants to howl for him to not leave, but he can’t get his voice out.

“Don’t you have any glasses?” Armitage shouts from the kitchen. “Never mind.” He comes back with a thermal mug and pushes it into Kylo’s hands. It’s full of water but smells distinctly of tea,so Kylo assumes it must be Armitage’s own travel mug. “Drink it all,” Armitage insists when Kylo wants to put the mug down.

“Now, get up. You reek,and if I’m to babysit you I won’t put up with it.” He wrinkles his nose. He looks cute like this even if he hates Kylo.

Kylo allows himself to be led to the bathroom and waits, shivering, as Armitage turns on the water in the tub and adjusts the temperature.

“In,” Armitage says,and Kylo looks down at himself, at his dirty clothes.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Armitage huffs, helping Kylo to undress, soiled boxers and all, until Kylo is naked, his limp, sweaty cock plastered to his leg. Then Armitage gently pushes Kylo toward the tub, waiting until Kylo sits there, folding his limbs awkwardly. He switches the stream of water to the showerhead and pours it over Kylo’s head. The water is nice, not too hot, not cold either, just good and soft and pure on Kylo’s skin. He closes his eyes, sighs in relief, and lets Armitage wash him.

Armitage places the showerhead down, and then Kylo feels firm but gentle hands massaging his scalp, lathering his hair with shampoo.

“You’re such a mess, Kylo, you know? How come you’re such a mess?” His tone doesn’t imply that he’s expecting an answer to this rhetorical question, but still Kylo feels compelled to answer.

“I’m sorry,” he says. He starts to cry _again_. So he’s not used up all the tears after all. It’s just that Armitage is so close and so gentle, so good to him. Armitage’s fingers in Kylo’s hair feel like a blessing, a forgiveness, an absolution of all his sins. He leans his head on Armitage’s arm, and the movement of fingers in his hair stops. Then Armitage gives Kylo’s hair a little tug to make him move. The pain is exquisite, combined with the heat of the water relaxing Kylo’s muscles and with Armitage’s soothing presence.

Kylo moans and Armitage chuckles. “Into a little pain, are we?”

Kylo looks up. This close, in the bright light of the bathroom, Armitage is very beautiful—like Kylo’s personal Guardian Angel with that pale face and icy green-blue eyes.

“Okay,” Armitage says. “You’re clean enough. Now, where do you keep your towels?”

 _The_ towel must be in Kylo’s bedroom somewhere, thrown in a corner. At Kylo’s lack of response Armitage rolls his eyes and exits the bathroom.

Left alone, Kylo shuts his eyes again and tries to retain this perfect hallucination that he’s having—that there’s this beautiful, if odd, man in his shitty apartment, taking care of him. Kylo must still be very high because he can _hear_ Armitage moving around his apartment, and then the bathroom door opens and Armitage enters, holding the towel with two fingers.

“This place is a pigpen, Kylo. You don’t even own a clean towel. And where’s your glassware?”

“I destroyed it all,” Kylo whispers. If Armitage is real, and not a sick fantasy Kylo’s brain produced after too many drugs, he will leave now that he knows what a nutter failure Kylo is.

“I see,” Hux says, seemingly not perturbed by the answer. “Here.” He hands the towel to Kylo and waits until Kylo gets out of the tub, then pushes him lightly toward the bedroom and helps him to settle on the bed and under his pile of blankets.

“Can you stay with me for a while?” Kylo asks. “Until I fall asleep?” He hates to be this needy and pathetic, but he’s terrified of being alone right now. He feels slightly better now that he’s clean, but he still mostly wants to die. There are so many ways he could do it. He could get back into that tub, fill it up with hot water, and cut his veins up, up, up. That would be the best—sharp and soft at the same time. He’d drift off and wouldn’t come back.

This train of thought is cut when he sees Armitage taking out his iPhone and settling next to him on the bed.

“Why are you doing this?” he asks. He’s nobody to Armitage—someone Armitage has seen jerking off once, nothing more. He doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve anything good, actually.

“Because I feel like it. You’ll see, Kylo, that I always do as I please. And also because you took such good care of that monster for me.”

Kylo wants to ask if Armitage means his father and why does he think that, but Armitage is already working, tapping at his phone, and Kylo doesn’t dare interrupt the fast, barely audible tap-tap-tap, this sound that’s soothing for Kylo, too, with its distant familiarity from Cedar Oak.

“I have to call in sick,” he mutters. His eyes are drooping now. He feels so heavy next to Armitage. He won’t be able to pick up his phone. “Can’t skip a day of community service without explanation if I don’t want to go to jail.” But he won’t do it. He won’t call. He knows it already.

“I’ll call infor you,” Armitage says. “Sleep now.”

And Christ, it’s a blessed feeling to be cared for like this, to have all his troubles and worries taken by someone else, someone Kylo can trust. Even if he feels guilt and disappointment with himself, too, because he should have been able to make that call. And normally the “he should have” thoughts would push him to the brink of sanity, the self-hate spiral getting out of control at the memory of all his failures one by one, but he’s so tired and Armitage is next to him—this strange man, commanding and full of judgment but also for some unfathomable reason caring for Kylo in this very moment and accepting him despite all that judgment.  

#

When Kylo wakes up, he’s alone.

“Of course,” he whispers. It was just a hallucination induced by all the drugs, a good dream and nothing more. Armitage was never here; no one is ever here. Kylo has made sure to scare everyone in his life, to push everyone away. Even Han—even him, and Kylo thought that no matter what he’d have his dad’s love forever. But he’s a rotten fruit, useless, unwanted, annoying. He destroys everything that he touches.

Kylo pushes his hair out of his face and _oh_ —it doesn’t feel gross. It’s clean and _combed out_. He has no recollection of doing it himself. So perhaps that wasn’t a hallucination. Or maybe it’s more lost time. He isn’t sure.

The door to his apartment clicks just as he stands up and drags his sorry ass to the kitchen to drink water straight from the tap.

“You’re up!” Armitage says, walking inside. He’s smiling, one corner of his mouth rising a bit. The light outside the window is dimmed, late afternoon already, and it has changed Armitage’s eye color into a darker green-gray. He’s holding a paper bag in one hand, his thermal mug in another. “I went out to grab us something to eat.” He shows the bag to Kylo. “How do you feel?’

“Like shit.” Kylo’s voice is still rough, as if he’s been screaming his lungs out all night. Perhaps he has.

Armitage sighs and sets the bag on the counter next to Kylo, then passes him the mug full of aromatic, hot tea. “Here,” he says.

Kylo looks at the mug in his hand. It seems familiar. “Did you give me water in this?” he asks, the vague memory of tea-scented water and Armitage’s gentle touch coming back to him now.

Armitage leans back on the faded brown counter and watches Kylo with strange intensity. It’s not judgement per se, but something _searching_ , assessing.

“You don’t have any glasses. Or any other dishware for that matter.”

“I know.” Kylo’s cheeks are hot. “I broke them all.”

“You weren’t joking about it, then.” It’s a statement, but still Kylo feels compelled to answer.

“No, I wasn’t. I’m…” He doesn’t know how to state this. “I’m not… well,” he finishes lamely, shrugging. It’s embarrassing to say. Ambiguous, too, as if he’s seeking excuses for his failures.

“Do you take any medication? Attend therapy?”

That’s a blunt question—Armitage seems to be the master of those, as if he hasn’t been taught proper social etiquette.

Kylo looks at his hands. They are clean, just like his hair, but his fingernails are broken, and his knuckles are scabbed over and bruised.

“No,” he says. “No medication. No therapy.” He’s refused both more times than he can count, but he feels like he has to explain this to Armitage. “This is just how I’m wired. I’m just… stupid like this. But I deserve it. I’m a monster.” He uses the same word Armitage has used to describe his father. He thinks it suits him more.

“I beg to differ. And I certainly don’t believe at all that _everyone_ deserves happiness. But I’ve seen you with patients and you’re not a bad person.”

“You don’t know me. You don’t know what I’ve done,” Kylo says. He thinks of all the things he’s destroyed in his life. Of all the disappointment he’s caused. He thinks of the night he shouted to his parents that he wished them dead. Of Leia’s face when she learned that he’d been drinking while driving. At least she still doesn’t know that he _wanted to die on that day_ but it just didn’t work out, and later he was sensible enough to deny it when questioned. _Just an accident._ Stupid, reckless behavior.

“No,” Armitage says calmly. “But everyone makes mistakes. Your… _atonement_ seems a bit harsh. And I should know all about crime and punishment.”

Kylo stands in silence. He wishes the tea he’s holding could burn his hand, but the mug has a protective surface. “Don’t you have anywhere to be?” he asks. It sounds offensive even if he doesn’tmean it this way. He tries to tone it down a little. “Work? Your dad’s?”

Armitage shrugs. “I can work remotely. And my father hasn’t regained consciousness yet. He might not regain it at all.”

“I’m sorry,” Kylo says.

“I’m not.” Armitage’s eyes are cold, his chin lifted up, as if he’s challenging Kylo to disagree. Kylo looks down and Armitage reaches for the paper bag. “I bought bagels. Cheese and ham or salmon and cream cheese?”

“Cheese and ham,” Kylo responds automatically, and Armitage smiles.

“I was hoping for that.”

They eat sitting on the bed, as there’s nowhere else but the yellowish linoleum floor to sit on in Kylo’s apartment. They pass the tea between each other, their fingers brushing, and it feels light somehow, like a secret picnic behind the bleachers at school. Armitage’s phone chimes.

“I’ve got to go,” Armitage says. His fingers are elegant even when they’re brushing bagel crumbs off his slacks. “Will you be okay?”

Kylo nods. He won’t, but that’s nothing new. At least he’s not as deep in despair as he was last night.

“Good. Now, if you ever feel like calling me, no matter what time or reason, do it, all right? I’ll always pick up.”

“Why?”

Armitage shrugs. “I told you. Because I feel like it.” He points a finger at him. “Don’t disappoint me.”

Kylo’s a walking disappointment. His name should be in the dictionary next to the word, listed as a synonym.

“Good,” Armitage says again, as though Kylo has agreed to something. Then he gives Kylo a peck on the cheek and leaves. The door shuts behind him, and Kylo’s left alone on the bed with Armitage’s thermal mug in his hand.

Soon after, Kylo’s phone beeps with an incoming message. He picks the phone up from the floor. It has been plugged in, even though Kylo doesn’t remember finding his charger—Armitage must have done it for him.

 _Be good, Kylo_ _,_ the message says. _I’d very much like to see you again soon. AH_

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The warnings stand. This is not a happy bunny Kylo.  
> There's a a brief mention of a possible past suicide attempt in this chapter, please read safely.

After Armitage’s gone Kylo sleeps some more, and when he wakes up it’s mid-afternoon already and he’s wasted more than half the day. He gets up angry with himself but determined to make up for lost time by going out to shop.

Shopping is  _always_ a bad idea, though. The aisles of the local market are narrow and cluttered, and Kylo’s simply too big to move around freely, which makes him paranoid that he’ll knock something off a shelf and make a mess. That he has to brush past the other customers is even worse; they keep bumping into him in the tight space, or maybe it’s he who bumps into them, murmuring “sorry”s and keeping his head low to conceal the scar behind his hair. Still, he manages to buy what he wanted, more or less, spending what he’s sure is the last eighty dollars in his account. He goes back home with bags filled with basic food items, a package of six small white plates, two red ceramic mugs, one big towel, a pack of cheap plastic picnic cutlery, and some cleaning products. He sets the groceries and dishware on the countertop and gets to work.

First, he takes his linens, which fucking stink, along with the towel he used last night and a few light-colored T-shirts, to the basement of the building to use the communal washing machine. It’s old and faulty, leaving detergent splashes on clothes because the rinsing system is on the fritz, but Kylo isn’t going to sleep in sheets that reek of his vomit and sweat. He leaves the laundry and goes back upstairs. The elevator is still out of order, so he trudges up the stairs to the fourth floor, stepping gingerly because he’s still sore from the night he mostly doesn’t remember.

Scrubbing the apartment clean is methodical and almost meditative in its simplicity and physicality. Kylo washes the bathroom first: the toilet, the sink, the tub. He even scours the crusty grout lines between the tiles. He finishes with mopping the floors and sits back on his legs feeling somewhat accomplished. Sure, the bathroom still looks dirty, but it will look like that no matter what he does, because everything is old and cracked, and there are long-standing stains that just can’t be cleaned anymore. He lets the feeling of satisfaction wash over him, but then he turns around and thinks of all the cleaning he still has to get done and his head spins. He sits against the wall, with his legs straightened in front of him, and wipes his hair out of his eyes. His fingers smell of Clorox and are already wrinkled from water, and his palms are dry and itchy, irritated where the skin was scabbed before.

His head spins again.

Perhaps he’s just hungry, he thinks. Hours have gone by since that bagel and tea shared with Armitage, and it’s already darkening outside. Reluctantly, he gets up from the floor and starts preparing a sandwich. He wants to make it healthy and good—maybe because that morning bagel tasted delicious, and he wants to replicate the feeling he had when Armitage sat next to him on his dirty floor and everything seemed to be frozen in time and pleasantly calm for a moment. Normally he’d just eat the bread on its own and stuff some cheese or ham or whatever in his mouth to chew after, because what difference does it make if he has a pretty sandwich if it’s all melting together in his stomach anyway? But now he makes an effort.

He sets all the ingredients out on the counter: bread, ham, tomato, provolone. He forgot to buy butter, so he uses cream cheese instead, setting the plastic tub next to the sourdough loaf. The plastic knife breaks while he spreads the cheese and the second one is just as useless for cutting tomatoes, and Kylo jumps up and down, agitated, shouting, “Fuck, fuck, fuck you!”

There was a decent, normal knife somewhere, but he can’t find it despite searching fucking everywhere. He hates looking for things—his shoulders tense immediately and he starts to hate himself more, because, fuck, he should pay attention to where he puts his things. They should be easy enough to locate in his mostly empty 400 square feet.

He finds his knife eventually, hidden in the freezer—he must have put it there on one of the bad nights?—and goes back to cutting the tomato, but his hands shake and the knife is so fucking cold and slippery that his grip falters, the cutting edge sliding down his finger. At first there’s just the sharp sting of a cut, but then the blood builds up and oozes out and Kylo watches it trickle with an odd, cool curiosity, as if it’s not his own blood at all. He kind of enjoys the pain, too, as usual, tilting into it and finding more pleasure than he ought to. It’s just so good to feel something on the _outside_ of him instead of the constant pain inside.

The cut is shallow and soon the blood clots and Kylo gets back to his sandwich. He drinks some water from the new mug and regrets not having Armitage’s thermal one, smelling of that bitter tea.

He keeps cleaning throughout the rest of the evening until the whole place is tidy, more or less. He does two more loads of laundry, and by the time he’s fishing the last batch of darks out of the dryer it must be way after midnight, and he’s tired, so tired again, but he refuses to go to sleep because it means that another day will start, a day on which he’ll have to get up, and eat, and walk, and work again, and respond to questions, and then come back here, and he just can’t do it. This place will be a shithole no matter how clean he scrubs it. He matches this place, too.

Everything is pointless and he hates himself for being so weak.

 

#

Kylo wakes up with a start, a vivid dream clinging to his mind: images of running down a long corridor, all doors closed, and the corridor stretching, stretching far in front of him while some powerful and malevolent force is chasing him. He tries to shake away the lingering sensation of terror, of looming danger, as he gets up and makes himself some instant coffee with milk and sugar. It’s nice to have food in his place and drink something warm before going out in the cold, he muses while he dresses for work. October has been warm thus far, but as it draws to the end, the winds pick up, bringing more rain. Kylo’s not a summer person, but he hates the layers he’s got to put on himself, and the lack of daylight has never been helpful with his bad moods.

He’s not particularly looking forward to his chores for the day either, but he doesn’t think staying in would be any better. Besides, he really needs to finish his community service and move on to the next chapter of his life—whatever this is going to be. He didn’t expect to _live_ , not really, so it’s not as if he has anything lined up for after he’s done with Cedar Oak. He definitely doesn’t intend to go back to working for his uncle Luke or his mother. He’s only a liability to her—a volatile, drunk, and angry son isn’t exactly the most helpful family connection for a senator.

The events of the previous day rush back to him and he cringes at the memory, the guilt and embarrassment burning his guts like acid. He’s such an idiot. He can’t believe he let Armitage see him like that—that he let him _bathe_ Kylo like a child! Kylo’s cheeks are on fire at the thought and he’s nauseated. There’s only darkness, he can’t see for a minute, and when he can finally breathe again there’s a bitter aftertaste in his mouth and crescent marks where his nails have dug into his palms. He grits his teeth, counts to twenty, and forces himself to stop agonizing over how undignified his behavior has been. Instead he takes out his phone and texts Armitage.

_I wanted to thank you for taking care of me yesterday._

He stops and deletes the last bit, starts again.

_I wanted to thank you for yesterday. I’m really sorry._

He deletes “sorry” and writes “stupid” instead. He deletes that again and, frustrated with himself, he just hits Send without adding a second sentence.

He’s on his way to the train station when he gets a reply.

_My pleasure,_ Armitage texts.

_I can think of more pleasurable things than babysitting me,_ Kylo sends back, and flinches immediately after, texts, _Sorry! I sound like a creep. I just meant that you must have had better things to do._

He sends the text and almost crushes his phone on the pavement. Why is he such an idiot?

He gets a smiley winky face in return, though, which surprises him because he wouldn’t peg Armitage for an emoji kind of person.

His phone dings. _Would you like to meet tonight?_ Kylo’s eyes widen.

_For pleasure?_ He texts back, his heart rate picking up.

_For dinner ;)_ Armitage replies, which is immediately followed by another text. _But pleasure too, if you feel like it._

This message is followed by a string of emojis with eggplants and water droplets and Kylo can’t help but laugh aloud, earning him a nasty look from a passenger waiting next to him on the platform. Kylo scowls at the man in return, and then turns to hide his face behind his hair.

_Sure :),_ he texts. He has to figure out how to add more elaborate emojis on this phone to match Armitage’s.

_What time do you finish work today?_

Kylo frowns. He has to think. _6pm_. He hopes this is right.

_OK. I’ll come pick you up from Ced.O at 6 then._

Kylo replies with another smiley face and finds out that he’s smiling for real.

The rest of the working day feels somewhat dreamlike. The absence of pain in Kylo’s… well, _soul_ is similar to the effect a mixture of pills and alcohol usually has on him when he needs to erase himself. This is as close to, maybe not happiness, but peacefulness and feeling better as he’s experienced in a long time. He doesn’t react when one of the patients spills his meal all over himself, and he actually jokes with Mr. Tarkin, who speaks his usual nonsense.

“You seem better,” Phasma observes as they’re both helping a patient into the shower. “Although I’d appreciate if you kept your bad moods outside of this workplace.” Her gaze is piercing and scrutinizing. “And next time you go on a bender, call for yourself instead of having your boyfriend do it for you.”

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” Kylo spits out, feeling cornered.

“Kylo.” Phasma lays a hand on his shoulder and he forces himself not to shake it off. “All I’m saying is that there are responsibilities you need to take into consideration. And if you feel like you can’t meet those responsibilities, then perhaps you should seek professional help. Otherwise do the job that has been assigned to you.” Her words are harsh, but there’s something in her voice that oozes _compassion_ and _confidence_.

“Okay,” he says instead of lashing out.

She pats his arm. “You’re doing a good job here, Kylo, and you have a way with patients. If you sort yourself out I’m willing to put in a good word for you, so you can be hired here after you’re done with the community service.”

Kylo looks at her with astonishment. He’s never thought of himself as a good employee before, and Phasma is the second person after Armitage to tell him that he’s got a good bedside manner. He’s always worked in more creative environments, but there’s something soothing and fulfilling about the work here, and maybe this is something he can do for real, after all. At least for a while longer, until he figures out what to do with the rest of his life.

#

The black BMW is waiting for Kylo at the edge of the parking lot and he picks up his pace, his pulse quickening, too. He slides into the neat interior and is immediately flooded with doubts. Should he say hi? Should he kiss Armitage hello?

Thankfully, Armitage just speeds up, leaving Cedar Oak’s cracked asphalt behind.

“How are you? You look better,” Armitage says. Kylo wishes he didn’t have to be reminded of the previous day.

“Thanks. I’m fine.” He looks the other way, so he doesn’t have to meet Armitage’s gaze. He should thank Armitage for what he did, but at the same time he doesn’t want to bring it up. Still, he needs to give Armitage something, so he says, “I rested, did some shopping. Bought some plates.”

Armitage nods. “Good.” And after a while he asks, “Does this happen often? A night like that?”

What does “often” mean? Kylo thinks. It’s not every day. But at least once every few weeks. He scowls and says, “Not really.” It’s a lie, and perhaps deception is audible in his voice, but Armitage doesn’t challenge him, just drives on in silence.

“Do you have any preferences?” he asks when they are nearing the city, and Kylo takes a breath. That’s blunt, but he’s getting used to Armitage’s ways.

“For sex?”

Armitage laughs. He’s got a nice laugh, almost a giggle that makes him seem boyish, much younger than he is.

“For food,” he says. “Asian, Italian, Mexican?”

“I’ll eat anything,” Kylo says. He’s giggling too, just a little, for once not perturbed with his mistake even though it feels like déjà vu from their text conversation. “I mean, whichever you prefer.”

They end up in a quiet little place that serves Indian food, and Kylo stuffs his face with shahi korma and naan bread and almost hums around it with pleasure because it’s been quite a while since he’s eaten anything this rich in flavor and satisfying. Armitage looks pleased, too, over his tandoori chicken with rice. They haven’t ordered any alcohol by some mutual silent agreement, and Kylo’s grateful for the absence of alcohol talk.

“So, what do you do for a living?” Armitage asks, sipping on his tea, and Kylo squirms. “I mean, besides Cedar Oak.”

Should Kylo remind Armitage what a failure he is? A college dropout, almost a high school dropout (he would be if it weren’t for his uncle, who almost dragged Kylo’s sorry ass throughout most of Kylo’s—Ben’s—education).

“Nothing really,” he says, shrugging. “Well, I used to be a graphic designer, did some 3D animation, too. Sometimes some carpentry.” It all depended on where he was living; he even designed political pamphlets for Leia, as well as taught English in a school in Cambodia when he was traveling instead of finishing college. “You?” He needs to deflect this question and Armitage’s scrutiny as fast as he can, so Armitage doesn’t think he’s an uneducated and stupid disaster. “I’m assuming you do something important and well paid?”

Armitage smiles. “Crisis Management and Strategic Intelligence at First Order Consulting.”

Kylo almost chokes on his food. “Snoke?”

“Well, yes. Why? You’ve heard of him?”

Kylo shakes his head. “Only a little.” _Everyone knows of Snoke._ Some of the graphic work Kylo did as a freelancer was for Snoke’s company (despite Leia’s protests and warnings about “that old creep and lobbyist and his shady organization”). It was also the only time in Kylo’s life he was actually praised for something. But he failed at it in the end, not meeting deadlines, so he wasn’t hired on permanently in the First Order. Another lost chance in his life.

To change the topic again, he asks, “So how come you date—” Armitage’s eyes widen and Kylo wants to hit himself in the face. “I mean this is a date, yes?” Oh, fucking Christ, why does he have to make it so awkward, always?

Armitage puts his tea down on the table and then nods. “I’d say so, yes.”

Kylo doesn’t want to continue this train of thought anymore. He wants to leave. He _needs_ to leave. The heat in this place is getting unbearable, the pounding in his temples intensifies, the pain in his chest, too.

“Kylo?”

He feels a tentative hand on his fist that’s clenched on the table next to the bread basket. Armitage’s fingers are cool and smooth, and Kylo’s eyes burn. “Sorry,” he manages through clenched teeth. “Social interaction isn’t my forte.”

Armitage’s fingers close tighter around Kylo’s hand. “As you’ve probably noticed, it’s not mine either.” Kylo tries to look up but he can’t. Not yet. He observes bread crumbs and one small dot of vivid orange sauce that’s fallen next to his plate. “Is it okay,” Armitage continues, and his voice has gotten softer, “that this is a date? Because it doesn’t have to be. If you don’t want this.”

Armitage’s fingers leave Kylo’s hand. When Kylo looks up he sees that Armitage’s expression is closed off, as if he’s employed some kind of a mask. And maybe it’s because he doesn’t care, but maybe it’s because he’s worried about Kylo’s reply?

“No, no.” Kylo shakes his head, his hair falling around his face. “I want this to be it. A date.”

They fall silent again and it’s weird, with Kylo not knowing how to fix whatever he’s broken over the last few minutes, and Armitage watching him impassively. Kylo wishes he could know Armitage’s thoughts. Finally, Armitage smiles a little and asks, “What did you want to ask me?”

Kylo scrambles to go back in his thought process to the original question.

“You wanted to know how come I date if…?” Armitage prompts. Oh, he’s good with listening and remembering what people say, Kylo thinks with astonishment. He’d be a good lawyer.

“If you don’t enjoy sex?” Kylo finishes, and knows immediately that he’s asked the wrong question because Armitage briefly looks to the side even if his face remains calm.

They are interrupted by a server who comes to pick up their plates and ask about desserts, which they both decline. The waitress goes to fetch the bill.

“I don’t usually date.” Armitage says. “And as you saw the other night, I enjoy a particular way of having sex. I thought this wasn’t a problem for you.”

He’s getting defensive, and it sparks an equal defensiveness in Kylo, which he tries to tamp down. It wouldn’t be a good idea to lose it in the middle of a nice dinner with a beautiful man.

So Kylo shakes his head, looks up, and says, “No.” And because this sounds harsh, because that’s how Kylo fucking intones words, making everyone think that he’s always angry and rude, he adds, “I very much enjoyed your way of having sex the other night. As you must have noticed.” He tries to smile a little to ease the tension that’s still in the air.

Armitage sighs, and some tightness leaves his body. He puts his clasped hands on the table and leans toward Kylo, looking a bit resigned and a little hopeful. “Let’s talk about this in private. Will you come over to my place?”

 #

Once again Kylo finds himself in Armitage’s luxurious apartment. Nothing’s changed from his previous visit—it’s as if no one really lives here. There’s not an object that is misplaced. However this time around an orange cat greets them, running to Armitage with its tail held high in a question mark and rubbing against his calves.

“This is Millicent. She’s my little baby,” Armitage says, bending down to pat her head and putting his keys in a ceramic bowl on a little stand by the door.

“She wasn’t here before.” Kylo says.

“No, my neighbor was taking care of her while I was at the hospital with my father.”

Kylo crouches down to pet the cat, too. She bumps Kylo’s hand and rubs the side of her face over Kylo’s outstretched palm, just below the cut on his finger. “She’s nice,” he says, just before she bites him and runs into the kitchen.

Armitage tuts. “She’s a nuisance.” He follows her to the kitchen and opens a can of wet food, scoops it into a bowl. “She always does what she pleases. One minute she loves you, the next she’s jumping on you with her claws.” He puts the bowl on the floor and gives Millicent a little rub behind her ears. “Just like me.”

Kylo straightens up from his crouch. He doesn’t know what he should make of this remark. Will he be petted and fed, and then hurt by Armitage? Is this a threat? Or just an observation. If it’s a threat then it’s not working, as Kylo feels oddly safe with Armitage, certainly safer than with his parents or Uncle Luke, safer than in his shitty apartment haunted by the ghosts his mind conjures. Maybe it’s because Armitage has taken care of him without asking for anything in return. Maybe it’s because he clearly cares about that orange tabby in a way that makes Kylo want to switch places with the cat.

The cat in question sits on the kitchen floor, eating, while Armitage leads Kylo to the couch.

“Can I blow you?” he asks, and Kylo laughs, because—seriously, he should get used to how Armitage comes out with those questions without any warning, but at the same time never assume that he knows what Armitage’s really talking about.

Armitage looks unamused, though, so Kylo schools his face into something more serious and takes a deep breath. “Yes,” he says. “I’d love to. But you said you don’t enjoy participating in sex. Isn’t a blow job direct participation?”

“Not really.” Armitage takes his jacket off and places it on the back of a classic black Barcelona armchair.

Kylo sits on the blue couch. “Explain?"

He’s not going to say no to a blow job, although he’d prefer to talk to Armitage instead. Or at least first. But maybe with sex out of the way they’ll be able to just—hang out?

The corners of Armitage’s lips are turned upwards. He looks young and delicious and Kylo would love to lick his lips, neck, collarbones, nipples. He’s seen how pert and small they are through the dress shirt Armitage has on, and he’d love to unwrap Armitage out of this neat packaging, but he’s not going to attempt anything without an explicit invitation. He’s starting to enjoy this puzzle, too.

“Well, I guess _it might be_ participation. But not for me. I want to make you feel good. If a foot massage would be something you’d love, I’d do that for you. And sometimes, like today, I just feel like having a dick in my mouth.”

He kneels between Kylo’s legs, presses both his hands to Kylo’s thighs, and then reaches toward Kylo’s fly. Kylo’s hand shoots out and he grabs Armitage’s wrist. His fingers almost encircle the delicate bones. Armitage looks up, inquiring.

“May I use your bathroom first?” He’s been working all day and he refuses to let Armitage take his dirty dick in his mouth. Armitage nods and sits back on his heels.

“It will take just a moment, please don’t move.” Kylo walks swiftly to the bathroom, or as fast as he can with an erection pressing on the fly of his jeans. He uses the sink and Armitage’s soap to scrub his dick and balls clean, and dries himself off with one of a few fluffy hand towels hanging from a rack.

He tucks himself in, his erection flagging a little, and goes back to the room where Armitage is still on the floor, kneeling next to the couch. Kylo takes his place back. “Thank you for waiting,” he says.

Armitage reaches for his fly once more and frees his dick out of the confines of his jeans and boxer briefs.

“You’ve got such a nice cock,” Armitage says with reverence, and runs his fingers over the shiny head of it. It feels nice and Kylo’s dick twitches, filling even more. Armitage smirks and then leans down, taking a lick, then another, and then, without any warning, sliding his mouth down the shaft, almost to the root.

“Holy fuck,” Kylo says, his head rolling back. At first, he allows himself to just feel the firm grab of Armitage’s hand on the base of his cock, the heat of Armitage’s mouth and the gentle scrape of his teeth as he moves up and down. But then Kylo just _has to_ look, and he opens his eyes, taking his fill.

Armitage on his knees in front of him looks—“divine” doesn’t even do it justice. Kylo’s been blown in his life so many times he can’t count, but all the latest encounters have left him feeling used, unsatisfied, and lacking. Here, seated in Armitage’s designer couch, he feels both grounded and like he’s _flying_. Armitage alternates between deep sucking and moving his mouth so that Kylo’s dick slides into his stretched cheek in the most delicious way, and Kylo is absurdly close already.

Armitage pulls off with a smack of his lips. His pupils are blown wide, and Kylo thinks that he must be affected by it somehow, even though he says he doesn’t see it as sex for himself. “You can come in my mouth,” Armitage says, but he sounds a bit drunk, and Kylo’s not sure it isn’t just an impulsive decision. Besides, he really should get tested after his latest stunts, and he’s not going to endanger Armitage any more than he already has.

He thinks of those little buds of the nipples visible through Armitage’s shirt. “Can I come on your chest instead?” he asks.

Armitage cocks an eyebrow. “Titty fetish?”

“Not quite. It’s just that your body is so…smooth.” Kylo reaches to touch Armitage’s face; his eyes flutter closed when Kylo makes contact. He looks happy, as if he’s basking in the feeling of Kylo’s stroking, and Kylo thinks he really doesn’t get this man. He wants touch and doesn’t want it at the same time. He says he doesn’t like sex but then seeks it out. It’s baffling. But then Kylo thinks of his own emotions—of how they change with the tide, turning 180 degrees because the wind blows the other way, and he decides that nothing is set in stone. Everything is a process, everything is evolving, changing, moving up or down on a scale, he just has to trust that Armitage is doing what he wants and not what he feels he should be doing.

“All right,” Armitage says, looking interested. He reaches to his shirt and opens the buttons, one by one, his long, delicate fingers deft and fast. He opens the shirt to reveal the pale skin of his slim, smooth chest and the two pink dots of his nipples that Kylo wants to bite and tease. He leans forward, intending to do just that, but then stops himself and instead looks up at Armitage, licking his mouth. Armitage’s eyes widen. His slacks are once again tented when Kylo takes a peek.

“Come on, lie down here,” Kylo says, making room for Armitage to climb up on the couch. Armitage positions himself on his back and Kylo straddles his hips, with his legs still clad in jeans and cock only taken out through the opened fly. The base of the fly is digging into Kylo’s balls painfully, and he wants to rub over it, feel the chafing. He jerks himself off in front of Armitage, watching Armitage’s chest and feeling Armitage’s still clothed dick twitching under Kylo’s buttocks. And when Kylo can’t hold it any longer, he whispers, “Hurt me a little? Please?”

Armitage reaches out with his hand, slipping it under Kylo’s T-shirt, finding his nipple and twisting hard—even harder than Kylo normally does. Armitage’s nails dig into Kylo’s skin, too, and he cries out, letting his orgasm overtake him, and spills on Armitage’s chest, the trickle of seed staining the freckled skin and slipping lower and lower down to Armitage’s navel. Kylo wants to lean down and lick it clean. He feels that Armitage is really hard, cock trapped under Kylo’s weight, but he doesn’t propose to reciprocate, just stays still, his breathing ragged, his hair falling over his face, his arms braced around Armitage’s face and shaking from the strain.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says, half-lucid, because Armitage is—with his high cheekbones and full lips and orange, almost translucent eyelashes casting shadows over the light green of his eyes.

They stay like this for a few moments more, just breathing, taking each other in. And then Kylo gets up, picks up the roll of paper towels from the kitchen, and goes back to wipe Armitage’s chest and stomach clean. Armitage looks content and peaceful, with his eyes closed and color high on his cheeks, his slacks not tenting as prominently anymore. He smiles when Kylo pats his thigh. “All clear.”

Armitage sits up then, buttoning his shirt. “That was great,” he says, and stands up. “I’m making myself tea. Would you like some, too? Can you stay a while longer?”

“Yes to staying, no to tea,” Kylo says, closing his eyes. His dick is still on display, flaccid now but still wet at the tip. He reaches to tuck it back into his boxer briefs but leaves his fly open. He doesn’t care how stupid this looks.

Armitage comes back with his tea—English style with milk this time around—and hands Kylo a bottle of water. It tastes good, cold and sweet, some kind of spring water in a real glass bottle, probably expensive.

They watch The Walking Dead, and Kylo’s sure he’ll have zombie- and blood-filled nightmares for days afterwards, but he’s not going to admit what a wuss he is. When he sees Armitage’s eyes droop, he stands up, straightening his clothes. “I need to go,” he says.

“Okay,” Armitage replies, sleepily. He follows Kylo to let him out and leans on the frame of the door. “I really like you,” he says, sounding half-asleep. “I have a conference tomorrow, and a flight on Thursday, but maybe you could come over on Friday evening? Stay the night?”

“Yes,” Kylo says. He gives Armitage a quick peck on the cheek and turns to the elevator. He feels like he doesn’t weigh anything. As if he’s been transformed into a balloon full of feathers, weightless and buffeted by the wind.

In the elevator he closes his eyes and presses his cheek to the cool mirror. He needs to get some perspective. He needs to get a grip on himself. Because—fuck, he doesn’t feel _normal_. He’s jittery and scared of something he can’t pinpoint, and at the same time elated, his mind flying high like after a good cocktail of drugs. Once outside he wraps his jacket tightly around himself and walks to the nearest subway station, wind blasting drizzle across his heated face. His teeth chatter but it’s got nothing to do with the cold.

He _really_ needs to get a grip on himself, or things are going to go downhill for him again.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I'm very very sorry it took me THREE MONTHS to update this story. :(   
> In my defence I can only say that I had a little mental breakdown myself because of change of meds, then my family and work life picked up with the speed of Millennium Falcon, and, well - here we are. The good news is that I'm writing this again and the future updates should be less spaced-out.
> 
> Secondly, ALL THE WARNINGS FOR THIS STORY STAND FOR THIS CHAPTER. Please, be careful, this chapter contains self-punishment, self-harm, and BAD SEX. Also, a minor character death and parent loss. If you think I should add dub-con as well, let me know.
> 
> Finally, I really want to thank my beta – Sillygoose – for all her suggestions and revisions she’s done for this chapter! It’s half her job too! <3
> 
> Please, let me know if I undertagged anything!

The last two days drag mercilessly for Kylo. The dullness of his everyday activities combines with an anxious feeling of anticipation, leaving him itchy under his skin. There are brief moments of reprieve when he and Armitage text back and forth, but they don’t really help speed up the clock. The intervals between texts stretch out like eons, epochs. Civilizations rise and fall in the time it takes Hux to respond to one of Kylo’s clumsy and inane attempts at flirting. Kylo has never flirted via text before, but he’s pretty sure that’s what he’s doing with Armitage right now, despite the fact that the messages are pretty innocent most of the time, just little things they both notice and want to share with each other.

_Looks like a big sausage,_ Armitage wrote this morning and attached a picture of a building. It was blurry on Kylo’s phone but indeed reminded him of a huge sausage.

_Oh right. It really does. It should stand next to the London pickle one, they’d make a meal together,_ Kylo texted back, wishing he could find something to take a picture of, too, but nothing in his vicinity seemed suitable.

He mops the floors and changes the sheets on god-knows-how-many beds—drag, fold, hold the corner, put under the mattress, stretch, repeat. He’s also tasked with organizing the linens and after an hour or so of making piles of bottom sheets (that are supposed to be “special” to prevent bedsores but aren’t really) and upper bed clothing ones, he doesn’t know which is which and has to start over again. Everything looks the same and everything is pointless. Kylo can’t even find it in himself to be angry at the repetitive motion that normally would make him want to scratch his face and pull at his hair. He’s just sleepy and tired and he wants it done before the whites and sickly greens are burned into his vision forever.

Halfway into the workday Kylo texts Armitage that Mr. Tarkin is upset about some strangers sitting outside the window on tree branches, watching him. _He believes they’ve come to eat his soup. He doesn’t want to eat the soup I’ve brought, though._

Armitage answers, _I like how you always write in whole sentences._

Kylo frowns. Is Armitage taking the piss out of him? Is Kylo giving off the vibe of a person who doesn’t know grammar and spelling, or is he misusing some texting etiquette, or does Armitage _actually_ like this? He doesn’t know what to reply, so he doesn’t answer at all, and all communication ceases until it’s the end of his shift and Kylo isn’t sure anymore if his date with Armitage is on or not. What if Armitage has changed his mind? What if Kylo has annoyed him with his texting? Or the lack of texting later on?

He sits heavily on a plastic chair outside of the nurse’s station and takes out his phone, deliberating how to frame his question. His hands have almost healed, over the last two days, but are again scraped raw by the chemicals he’s used all day to wipe and clean, and the disinfectant he puts on them before touching the patients.

“Finishing up for today?” Phasma asks as she exits the room, already in her civilian clothing. Somehow, she looks equally professional in jeans and a leather jacket with a motorcycle helmet under her arm, as in her nurse’s uniform. “Any plans for the evening?”

Kylo looks away, biting his lip. “Yeah.” He flips the phone in his hand, watching the dead screen. “I don’t know.”

“Does it hurt?” Phasma asks, and for a moment Kylo thinks she’s inquiring about him not knowing if he’s still seeing Armitage tonight. And yes, it kind of does. But as he looks up, he sees that she’s pointing at his reddened hands.

“Oh. This? Not really.” Which is a lie, because his hands fucking _sting and burn_.

She sighs and takes a white tube of ointment out of her bag. “Here,” she says. “Apply this. It’s not sticky and doesn’t smell.” She tosses the tube into his lap.

Kylo uncaps the tube and rubs the blissfully cool cream on the skin of his hands. It’s too much care for him, but he’s not going to fight Phasma over the hand balm.

“Thank you. Do you have…” Kylo starts, because he should probably ask Phasma about her plans, too, should be sociable. But before he manages to finish the sentence, Phasma turns on her heel to leave, striding down the corridor with purposeful steps.

“…any plans,” Kylo says to himself, looking down at the cream in his hands. He didn’t return it to her and now she’s gone. He’ll have to return it on Monday.

His skin feels less tight and irritated after just a few moments. He thinks about rubbing another dollop into his skin but he doesn’t want to seem greedy. Unless she doesn’t want the tube back after he’s had his hands all over it? Maybe he’ll just buy a new tube of it, if he can find it at a nearby pharmacy, and give her that. Although this isn’t something he’s seen before. What if he can’t find any? Maybe he can ask her about it when he sees her on Monday? He can handle this.

His phone is still silent as he walks to the train station. The clouds are hanging low and menacing over the city, and the wind picks up, blasting dust into Kylo’s face.

#

When he gets to Armitage’s it’s already dark, and gray rain is pouring from the sky in cold slashes that make everything chilly wet. Kylo’s hair is plastered to his face where it’s fallen out from under his hood, and the tops of his shoulders are heavy with water under his jacket. His feet are ice-cold, water sloshing in his shoes. He’s shivering when he enters the building and tells the concierge Armitage’s apartment number, then waits anxiously, certain that he’ll be thrown out of here, that Armitage hasn’t notified the building of his visitor.

The concierge puts the phone down and nods to Kylo. “Elevators are this way, sir. Tenth floor.”

Armitage opens the door. He looks… less collected than usual. He’s in his dress trousers but without a jacket, and his shirt is unbuttoned at the top, displaying his throat and the top of his sternum. His hair is mussed, and his cheeks are slightly colored, eyes a bit unfocused. _He’s drunk_ , Kylo realizes. 

“Kylo!” Armitage exclaims cheerfully, maybe too cheerfully. It makes him look a little manic.

“Hi,” Kylo says, hovering awkwardly in the doorway. He toes off his wet shoes, places his leather jacket on the floor next to them, and tries to wring his hair a little before he gets further inside. Millicent is nowhere to be seen—perhaps she’s not interested in guests this time around. He shuts the door behind himself and leans his wet shoulders against the cool wood.

Armitage tuts, but the annoyance in his voice seems false. “Let me get you a towel.” He retreats inside the apartment and comes back holding a huge, soft towel in one hand and a tumbler full of amber-colored alcohol in the other.

“Would you like a drink?” Armitage asks. He must really be out of his mind to offer alcohol to Kylo. “I’m celebrating tonight!” He raises his glass.

“Oh?” Kylo says, running the towel over his head and making sure that his hair is as dry as possible. “What’s the occasion?” Perhaps Armitage’s work trip went better than he’d anticipated.

“The hospital called me a few hours ago. My father died.”

Kylo’s breath catches. He’d say that he’s sorry, but he knows that’s not what Armitage is looking for. He hasn’t asked and doesn’t still ask what the colonel has done to his son to warrant this level of hatred, but he suspects that Armitage’s reaction isn’t as straightforward as it looks. It’s not just _anger_ toward his father—this emotion Kylo knows well and can decipher in people. But there’s something hysterical in the way Armitage moves around his apartment—it’s in the set of his shoulders, in the gesticulations of his hands, as if they have been set loose and unhinged, and in the glint in his eyes, indicating that whatever he’s experiencing is way more profound than just having _his revenge._

And Kylo isn’t sure he understands this mixture of feelings, so he has no idea how he can be of help.

“Let’s fuck,” Armitage says and turns to Kylo. He really looks half-mad.

Kylo doesn’t say anything. He’s stupefied, frozen by whatever mania Armitage is experiencing.

“You won’t drink with me, but you came here to fuck me, right? So, let’s fuck to celebrate.”

Kylo laughs, because this must be a joke. He says, “You really shouldn’t…”

Armitage comes near to Kylo, places his hand on Kylo’s cheek. It’s cold and slightly moist, like sometimes Kylo’s hands are when he’s too stressed out to function.

“Don’t argue with me,” Armitage says. “I know you want me.” He takes his hand from Kylo’s cheek and presses it to Kylo’s crotch, rubs there. He’s close enough that Kylo can smell the liquor on his breath. He swallows. Oh, how he wants to taste it.

“You should take these wet clothes off anyway.” Armitage’s lips brush Kylo’s just as he pushes his other hand underneath Kylo’s T-shirt.

This is too surreal.

The colonel has just died and Armitage is upset, but Kylo can’t control his body’s reactions; he’s getting hard underneath Armitage’s insistent touch. He doesn’t want _this_ with Armitage, but he knows the drill. Angry sex isn’t unfamiliar to Kylo. Maybe with sex out of the way they’ll be able to talk like last time, or eat something together, or watch another TV show on Armitage’s big screen… Kylo can even do another _Walking Dead_ episode if he has to.

So he humors Armitage and lets his hands wander over Kylo’s skin. All reservations aside, it’s exhilarating to have Armitage’s beautiful, elegant hands on him, caressing him, pinching his nipples, then going lower and lower to the waistband of Kylo’s jeans, unbuttoning the fly.

“I want you to fuck me,” Armitage says.

Kylo places his hands over Armitage’s wrists to still him. Armitage’s bones look so fragile in his grip. He wants to say, “Are you sure?” and—maybe—“No,” but somehow he can’t find the words, can’t say them in a way that wouldn’t offend Armitage, patronize him and show distrust. So after a moment he just nods and releases Armitage’s wrists.

He follows Armitage past the bathroom door and into the bedroom. It’s just as impersonal as the whole apartment, decorated in grays and beiges like a model for sale, classy and clean, the kind buyers want because they see potential in it, because there’s space to add personal touches. The windows on his right are covered in thick beige curtains like you’d find in a hotel, and there’s a nightstand on either side of a king-size bed that takes up most of the space in the room. The ice-blue bedspread is the only splash of color, matching the couch in the living room. The walls are bare.

Armitage opens one of the drawers and takes out a tube of lube and condoms. Then he sits on the bed and peels off his shoes and socks, but stills before he shucks his slacks along with his black boxer briefs. His face is tense and the corners of his mouth turn downwards, and he’s avoiding eye contact with Kylo. He looks way more determined than eager. His thighs are lovely, though—marble-white, dusted with light orange hair, long and slim. His cock is just as lovely, nested in neatly trimmed orange pubes, flaccid but deliciously pink in color, perfectly shaped. Kylo would love to take it into his mouth, roll it on his tongue and suck it to hardness, feel it swelling and thickening. Oral sex is apparently off the table tonight, though, because Armitage rolls over on his stomach and, perched on his arms, he asks, “Can you prepare me?”

Okay then. No kissing, no touching, straight to the point. Kylo nods and undresses, throwing his still wet clothes onto the hardwood floor. He stands stark naked there, still shivering a little, before he climbs on the bed and reaches for Amitage’s hip. His touch is gentle, but even so Armitage tenses up and jerks away, as if startled. Then he slowly gets back into his previous position and stills himself.

“Tell me if I’m doing anything you don’t like, all right?” Kylo says, but it’s clearly not a good night for Armitage, and Kylo very much doubts that he’ll get anything out of the man. He caresses Armitage’s smooth ass and dips his finger into his crack lightly, passing the pad of it over the entrance. When Armitage doesn’t flinch this time around, he rubs a few more times over the soft, tight pucker and then takes his hand away to squeeze some lube on it.

They really should talk it out first, he thinks, but what can he say? “Hey, now that I’ve got my lubed fingers in your ass, maybe we should talk about why we’re doing this?” That wouldn’t be sexy. Kylo doesn’t need to make it more awkward than it already is.

Armitage keeps his head down and face away from Kylo, while Kylo works to open him, so it’s hard to say whether he’s into it or just…enduring. Kylo would love to kneel behind Armitage, spread his cheeks and take a long, long lick. Armitage’s butt looks delicious, perfectly shaped, small and smooth.

“I love your skin,” Kylo says, caressing Armitage’s ass-cheek again, and perhaps he’s said the right thing somehow, because Armitage exhales softly and visibly relaxes, and it’s easier to work him open after that.

“I’m good, let’s do it,” Armitage says, way too quickly in Kylo’s opinion, but he’s not going to argue. It’s Armitage’s body, and asking “Are you sure?” is a manifestation of distrust and disregard, in Kylo’s opinion. Even if Armitage is a bit off tonight, he’s still an adult and probably way more self-aware than Kylo has ever been in his entire life.

Also, Kylo wants this fuck to be over so they can sprawl in Armitage’s soft, luxurious bed and _rest,_ maybe watch TV on his flat-screen or talk a little. And maybe Armitage will let Kylo touch his body without any sexual intent, just so Kylo can see if Armitage’s back is as smooth as it looks, and if his hair can slip through Kylo’s fingers like silky ribbons.

Despite how much he actually _wants_ Armitage and how much time he’s spent this previous week fantasizing about Armitage, Kylo’s not really in the mood to fuck, so he thanks his lucky stars he can even get it up at all as he rolls on the condom, squeezes more lube on his dick, and pushes into Armitage, slowly but firmly, without stopping, keeping Armitage immobile by gripping his hip.

He thrusts a few times in and out, but he can almost fucking _feel_ how bad it is for Armitage, he can sense it—it’s in the stillness of Amitage’s body, it’s in how cold to the touch his skin is, how totally silent he is. Kylo can imagine that Armitage’s lips are sealed tight, teeth clenched, eyes closed shut. He wants to say they really need to stop, but then he closes his own eyes and tries his best to give in to the feeling of Armitage’s tight heat enveloping him.

He won’t be able to come like this, he knows that, but he keeps going for a few moments more, and only stops when he really just can’t do it anymore. He’s going soft and he won’t be able to finish. He doesn’t know if Armitage was even hard or at least a bit aroused, and he’s not going to check now. He needs—he doesn’t know what, just for this whole situation to end. He lays his forehead in between Armitage’s shoulder blades. He’s failed again.

“Armitage,” he says, his lips brushing Armitage’s skin. He hopes that he doesn’t sound as if he’s crying. “I’m sorry.”

Armitage is silent and doesn’t move, but then he lays his cheek on the sheets and exhales. “What?” he says. He sounds angry. Or maybe just upset and disappointed.

“Can we not… do this?” Kylo asks. They aren’t doing it anyway, as Kylo’s dick has opted out of this adventure completely and he has to withdraw from Armitage’s body, keeping the condom pinched between his fingers so it doesn’t stay behind. He tugs it off and ties it even though he hasn’t ejaculated.

He should console Armitage somehow, tell him that he looks beautiful, that he’s amazing and that it’s not his fault, that it’s all Kylo’s. He wants to say, “I don’t want to hurt you, and I think I just did, because this is what I do to people I like. This is how I’m wired—to destroy everything and everyone in my vicinity.” He wants to say, “I don’t want you to feel like I normally do. I _like_ you.” But he thinks maybe that would be crossing the line. He’s not sure if that’s what Armitage wants to hear. So he says, “I’m sorry,” once again. And then, “I’m going to use your bathroom.”

He steps into the en suite bathroom. There’s a claw bathtub and a glass-and-stone shower and a shelf with a row of expensive looking hygiene products in brown glass bottles. The only thing that seems out of place is the cat's litter box in the corner. Kylo looks himself in the eye in the mirror and wants to fucking scream. He wants to trash this place, to throw all those expensive glass bottles on the floor and hit the mirror until it’s in shards and his hands are dripping blood. It’s Armitage’s bathroom, though, so he can’t, _he can’t_. He sits down on the closed toilet seat and tries to breathe evenly. But in his head he only hears, _You’ve failed again. You’ve failed again. You’ve fucked it up. You are so fucking useless_ _._

He balls his hands into fists and before he even knows what he’s doing he’s hitting his thighs hard, as hard as he can, blow after blow after blow, and he only stops when he’s too winded to continue. He didn’t feel the pain while he was doing it, but now that he’s stopped it comes on in a rush that hits him so hard he almost slips to the floor with a cry. He bends over on himself, hugging his legs, opening his mouth in a soundless “aaah,” because his thighs are on fire— fuck!—he’s beaten himself so hard. Thank God he doesn’t bruise easily and his legs are huge and full of muscles. They’ll hurt for a few days but nothing more, he’s done it before, and he knows that no lasting damage can really be inflicted like this.

It still hurts like fuck, though.

#

When Kylo comes out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, Armitage is standing in the kitchen under the cooker hood with a cigarette in his hand. He has his trousers back on as well as his shirt, although it’s unbuttoned and opened, leaving his chest on display. He looks quite miserable even though his face doesn’t reveal much emotion.

“My therapist would have a field day with me today, huh?” he says, exhaling the smoke close to the vent. His cheekbones look sharp in the kitchen’s bright white LED lights.

Kylo stares and stays silent.

Armitage takes another drag of the cigarette, holds the smoke in, and says on the exhale, “I bet you didn’t think I’d be such a fuck-up.” Part of the smoke gets released through his nose.

Kylo has never known anyone as collected and perfect as Armitage in everyday life, but he’s not blind—especially after tonight’s events he can see that Armitage must have his own demons. He’s just very, very good at hiding them. And Kylo admires that strength and restraint. He needs to say something, though, and he doesn’t want to upset Armitage more than he already has, so he opts for a joke.

“And carrying Valium around? Nah.” Kylo laughs, even if half of rich New Yorkers out here do that. Kylo’s—Ben’s—mother certainly does.

Armitage chuckles. Some tension leaves his arms, and he reaches to the sink to put the cigarette out under a stream of water. He throws it in the trash can under the sink and wipes his hands on a dish towel.

“I guess you’ll be wanting to go now? Sex not happening?” he asks. The question isn’t challenging, it sounds genuine and maybe even a little sad. And Kylo wonders what kind of person Armitage thinks Kylo is.

He shakes his head. “No. Unless that’s what you want?” Perhaps Armitage would like to be alone and not be bothered anymore on such a difficult day. Or perhaps not. The death of a close relative is never a simple situation. Maybe Armitage actually does need some company. Kylo wonders how he should frame his next sentence to not give Armitage some false impression that Kylo is doing it out of concern, or even worse—pity. “I’d like to hang around if that’s all right with you?”

Armitage looks at his feet, stays silent long enough that Kylo thinks that he’s not wanted after all, and this chilling feeling makes his body tense up.

“I was going to pour myself more whiskey and then pass out…” Armitage says and turns back to the counter. “But in this case—how about some tea?”

“Okay,” Kylo says. He’s not a tea fan usually, but he won’t mind a hot mug in his hands.

He should have known that Armitage doesn’t have mugs, though—instead he’s got Rosenthal black and white porcelain in the old Bauhaus style. Kylo doesn’t doubt it’s original. The tea is good, aromatic, hot and rich.

They drink it in silence, interspersed only with city sounds coming through the slightly ajar living room windows. Kylo is cold in the towel, but the tea warms him up. He feels oddly calm, as if nothing bad has happened, as if he’s not fucked up this evening with Armitage, as if he belongs here on this couch in this quiet apartment. He thinks that Ben would fit here better. Ben was used to the affluent life, fast cars and gourmet meals. But Ben has been destroyed by Kylo, along with Kylo’s place in his family and the easy life, and it doesn’t matter anymore where he’d fit or not.

Armitage has been silent for a longer while now, and when Kylo looks at him, he sees that Armitage has fallen asleep. His head is laid back on the backrest, his chest rises steadily and he breathes lightly, his expression calm and smooth. His lips are slightly parted, as if he wanted to say something and has fallen asleep mid-sentence.

Kylo should maybe tell Armitage to go to bed, because sleeping like this will have its revenge in the morning in the form of stiff neck and joints, but then again, Armitage looks like he needs rest right now, and Kylo decides not to rouse him. Instead, he observes him for a while longer—his sharp cheekbones and plump lips, so soft, with lips curved up a little on the right side and down a little on the left, his eyelashes casting shadows on his cheeks. He’d like to map this face with his fingers and maybe with his lips, too, but he wouldn’t dare touch Armitage without his consent, especially not after their earlier failure to have intercourse. He still doesn’t understand why Armitage insisted on having sex when he clearly hates it. Perhaps he was just as self-destructive tonight as Kylo is most days. It’s all connected to the colonel, Kylo suspects, but he won’t untangle this mess without knowing more about the whole relationship between Armitage and his father. Besides, it’s not his place to ask about it. Still, he can’t help but wonder about it.

Kylo has never in his life desired to get to know another person. He’s just never been interested enough or patient enough to listen to others or try to know the reasons behind their actions. Mostly, other people have been annoying obstacles, with their chatter and their insignificant troubles. Even those people whom Kylo has admired, like Uncle Luke, once, have always been judging him and finding him lacking in some way. No one has really ever understood Kylo, and thus he’s never felt the need to understand anyone else either. The gap between him and the world was just too broad. So, he’s never experienced the feeling of wanting to get to know the other person so deeply that he’d know _everything_ about them, down to their little everyday quirks, like do they shower first or brush their teeth first, or do they like their coffee with or without sugar, as well as major philosophical issues, like their opinion on the existence of a divine force or a destiny. He’s never needed to know the other person _so badly that it hurts_. It feels like going insane. And Kylo knows insanity well enough to be sure of what he’s talking about.

He gets up, making sure not to jolt Armitage, and pads to the bedroom, where some of his discarded and still mostly wet clothes have been left in a pile on the floor. He tugs his T-shirt and boxers on, finds his jeans and socks. It’s very unpleasant on the skin to wear damp and slightly stiff fabric, but he’ll just have to endure. As he’s leaving the bedroom he spots a thick soft gray blanket and picks it up to take it to the living room where he places it gently over Hux.

Millicent comes out yawning from wherever she’s been hiding all the time and rubs against Kylo’s legs, meowing in short little sounds. Her tail is up and she bumps her head on his shins a few more times so he assumes she’s hungry. He pads to the kitchen and opens a cabinet he’s seen Armitage take cat food from before.

“You’re hungry, pretty girl?” he asks, crouching to place the food in her bowl. She bumps his hand and half of the wet food ends up on the floor.

“Fuck,” Kylo says, scooping the food back into the dish. “You’d better clean this up,” he says to her as he gets up. He finds his still wet jacket and shoes and takes them in hand to put them on in the hall, not wanting to not make any more noise in the apartment. The door clicks softly behind him as it locks.

The journey to his place is long, cold, and tiring. By the time he reaches his apartment he doesn’t care about anything. He’s wet, he’s freezing, and he’s too tired to think, or even get upset about the whole night. He takes off his clothes and climbs into his bathtub to warm up. He wonders if Armitage has woken up already, if he’s angry or sad that Kylo left without a word, or if he doesn’t care. Perhaps he’s in his bed already, sleeping soundly with Millicent curled up next to him, and not even sparing Kylo a single thought.

Kylo makes himself some hot milk, because it’s way too late for coffee, reaches under his bed to grab a battered copy of _Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World_ , and reads in bed, only stopping when he reaches an underlined sentence: “Only where there is disillusionment and depression and sorrow does happiness arise; without the despair of loss, there is no hope.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings for this chapter! :)  
> Well, maybe a brief mention of hand-feeding and kneeling but in a fantasy.

Kylo wakes up at 6:00 a.m. to a stomachache. He rolls in his bed, trying to put some pressure on his belly with a pillow pushed up underneath himself, but it’s no use. Sharp cramps force him out of the bed and into the bathroom. He doesn’t know if he’s eaten something bad or if it’s a virus, or maybe just anxiety catching up with him. Maybe he’s got ulcers. Or maybe he’s dying.

He’d really thought this particular morning would unfold differently. Maybe he hadn’t exactly expected to wake up next to Armitage in his huge bed, but he’d hoped for—he doesn’t know what he’d hoped for. Certainly not sweating in pain, burning liquid swishing around his insides.

He sits on his toilet, feeling like hot lava is pouring through his intestines. He doesn’t have much strength but still he laughs, because his situation this morning actually perfectly matches the utter fiasco of the previous night. Kylo can’t help but overthink his choices—or lack thereof. If only he’d said “no” to Armitage, if he’d been better with communication then, maybe now they’d be eating breakfast together. Maybe. If only he’d been helpful instead of just another burden for Armitage yesterday.

He sprays cold water on his face and neck, the icy droplets dripping from his hair onto his shoulders, then drinks some water from the tap, slowly, lest it upset his stomach again.

He manages to sleep afterwards, buried under all the blankets he can find in his place, because he’s awfully cold, and only wakes up when his phone pings with an incoming message. It’s hard to open his eyes and Kylo blinks, watching but not seeing what he’s reading. The letters dance on the screen, not making any sense. It’s a while before he manages to read:

_I’m really sorry about yesterday._

And the next message: _I’ll understand if you don’t want to see me again after that._

Kylo types _No,_ and thank God manages not to send it at the last moment. He means, “No, don’t apologize. I want to see you,” but it reads like, “No, I don’t want to see you again.” So instead he types, _Dont be dorry. Iwat to seee tou._ The letters are scrambled because he can’t focus. His mouth tastes oddly sweet and his head is spinning.

He manages to get to the bathroom just before he starts throwing up. His hands shake when he’s done and pulling himself up. His body feels _dry_ , skin itchy, his palms once again reddened and cracking. He must be dehydrated. He searches around his apartment for the abandoned tube of cream that Phasma gave him, then applies some of the ointment and pats his face gently with it too, adding a drop on his lips. He really should shave, he thinks as he drinks the first of two glasses of water.

_Sorry,_ he types once he’s back under his covers, hoping the sickness has passed for good. He already feels better. _I think I have a stomach bug or something._

_Shit,_ Armitage sends back. _I better not text with you, then. I don’t want to catch it!_

Oh? So, they’re back to flirting and easy conversations despite what happened the previous night?

_I don’t mind sharing ;),_ he texts.

_I do._ Armitage sends back. Kylo isn’t sure if this refers to Armitage not wanting to get the stomach bug or not wanting to share himself with Kylo. Or maybe he doesn’t want to _share Kylo_ with anyone. Maybe all that. He wouldn’t mind if Armitage meant that for real.

_BTW, thank you for feeding Millie._

Kylo smiles. _You’re welcome,_ he types.

The next text from Armitage makes Kylo smile even wider: _Maybe I can repay you by feeding YOU sometime? ;)_

He thinks of being hand-fed by Armitage, and suddenly his mind spins out of control. In his mind’s eye he’s on his knees next to Armitage, who’s giving him morsels of meat and fruit from his plate. If it weren’t for Kylo’s upset stomach, he’d get hard at the thought.

He sends: _Yes, please._

He gets an exclamation mark in return and then, after a while, _Get some rest. Ttyl._

The rest of the Saturday is uneventful. Kylo spends most of it in bed, recovering. In the evening he feels well enough to layer himself up in sweaters and head to the grocery store to buy some bread and strawberry jam. It’s bland enough not to upset his stomach, and he eats it sitting on the floor in his kitchen. It should feel miserable, sitting alone on the floor eating warm toast, yet somehow it’s relaxing, and maybe Kylo’s brain is just too tired to torment him, but he’ll take any moment of peace in his head. He closes his eyes and thinks of nothing in particular as he chews the toast. He’d love to have some of Armitage’s tea to wash it down with. He can bet his stomach would appreciate that, too.

His phone rings when he’s wiping bread crumbs off the counter (look at him all grown up and collected, cleaning up after a meal!), and Kylo walks over to his bed and picks up.

“Hi,” Armitage says. He sounds shy, or maybe just tired.

“Hi,” Kylo says back. The silence stretches after that.

“How’s your stomach bug?” Armitage finally asks.

“Better. I think it’s gone.” Kylo sits on the bed and then lies back. “How are _you_?”

Silence again. Then, “He’s cremated now. I signed the papers, identified him. Did you know they need someone to identify the body before cremation? I didn’t. The funeral’s on Wednesday.”

Kylo tries to think of something to say to that, but his mind remains blank.

“Would you come with me?” Armitage’s voice is stilted.

“To the funeral?” Kylo asks, surprised. Why would Armitage want his company during his father’s funeral?

“I know we’ve not known each other for long, but you knew him, too, and…” He pauses. “Forget it.”

“No! I mean, I’ll come with you. If you want.”

Armitage again doesn’t say anything. Then, “Thank you. I’ll text you the details.” This is said in a stiff, formal manner, as if a switch has been turned in Armitage’s brain and he’s back to his professional self.

He hangs up after that and Kylo is left in the stifling silence of his room, not knowing what has happened really, if he has again said something wrong or if they’re okay and he shouldn’t look for a second meaning in Armitage’s sudden coldness.

However, he can’t settle after the call, so after a while he texts, _Would you like to come over?_ He sends it before he thinks better of it, of how pathetic his place is in comparison to Armitage’s, of the sorry excuse for company he himself is, of how Armitage probably has all manner of things to do that are way more important than sitting with Kylo.

But before he can send another text, taking his invitation back, there’s  _OK_ on the screen. Just “OK,” nothing more, but Kylo springs up from the bed and runs to the bathroom to take a shower, shave his face, brush his teeth twice, and then tidy up whatever is in disarray. He disinfects the toilet. He makes the bed. He should get more groceries but he doesn’t know what time Armitage will arrive at his place, so he doesn’t dare go out, and instead he stands in the kitchen, watching the street, immobile, trying to not let all that anxious energy in him loose.

He’s almost given up hope that Armitage is really coming over when he hears a knock on his door. Kylo’s doorbell is disconnected because he’s always hated the sound.

Armitage is in a black Canada Goose down parka that makes him look like a movie star on a set. He’s carrying a brown paper bag. Of course. Kylo should have known that Armitage would bring food if he’s coming to his place.

“Hi,” Armitage says, smiling lightly, as if unsure of how he’ll be greeted.

“Come in.” Kylo opens his door wider and takes the warm brown bag from Armitage’s hands while Armitage is unwrapping himself from his outer layers. It must have gotten colder outside as his ears are slightly pinked. “What are we eating?”

“Steamed veggies and rice,” Armitage says. He shrugs at Kylo’s surprised face. “You weren’t feeling well this morning. I thought it would be prudent to go for something light.”

Kylo is oddly touched by that gesture. Maybe it’s because never before in his life has anyone cared so much for his wellbeing. Whenever he had a stomachache as a child—and that happened quite often—Leia would let him skip a meal or two and then give him whatever he wanted, be it pizza or ice cream or chocolate. He vaguely remembers his father’s warm hand, gently massaging his tummy when he must have been four or five.

He smiles at Armitage. “Okay.” He takes the food to the kitchen and dishes out the rice and vegetables onto two plates. He hands one to Armitage, who takes it and sits on Kylo’s bed.

“I see you’ve cleaned up in here,” he says in between bites. “And real plates? I’m impressed!”

Kylo pushes his hair back. “Yeah.” He sits with his plate next to Armitage.

The rice is super bland indeed, but Kylo’s a bit scared to eat too much, so after a few bites he sets the plate on the floor and crawls up on the bed to watch Armitage eat. “So,” he says. “About last night…”

“I said I’m sorry,” Armitage says, sounding annoyed. Perhaps he’s not used to apologizing, just like Kylo.

“I just want to know if you’re okay,” Kylo says, irritated himself.

Armitage shoots him a quick glance, his lips twitching. “Yes,” he says. He stops eating and places his plate next to Kylo’s on the floor, then straightens up and turns to Kylo, looking him in the eyes. “I shouldn’t have asked you to fuck me.”

“That’s all right,” Kylo says.

Armitage rubs at his face and looks the other way. “I really hate sex.”

“And I said I’m all right with that, too, didn’t I?” Kylo asks. They’ve had this conversation already.

“I can’t believe that.” Armitage says. “You’re young, attractive, strong. It must be easy for you to get laid.”

Kylo fights the urge to roll his eyes. “I really couldn’t care less.” He tugs gently on Armitage’s sleeve. “Do you abhor any kind of touch? What about non-sexual stuff?”

“You mean like people wanting to touch my shoulder in the office? Or hug me at Christmas parties and weddings? Yeah, I do. My coworkers know to stay away from me by now.”

It’s not what Kylo meant, though. He doesn’t care for strangers invading his personal space either. “I meant things like holding hands or spooning in bed. Do you like anything sensual? Like if I ran my fingers lightly from your nape to your palm? Or if I stroked your hair?”

Armitage’s hair falls onto his eyes when he whispers, “I don’t know.”

Kylo doesn’t ask how’s it’s possible that Armitage doesn’t know. He tugs on his sleeve some more, making Armitage scoot closer to him on the bed.

“Do you have Netflix on your phone?” Kylo asks once they’re seated closely to each other, backs propped up on the pillows.

“Yes.” Armitage fishes his iPhone from his trousers’ pocket, unlocks it, finds the app, and passes the phone to Kylo.

Kylo deliberates on what they should watch as he scrolls through the recommended titles. Most things seem either too morbid or too serious, or too plot-heavy for him to follow. He stops at _The End of the F***ing World_. He shows that to Armitage, who shakes his head. “It’s—I like it, but something less intense, please?”

“Less intense,” Kylo mocks and scrolls to _Sex Education,_ which he’s heard is fun. Armitage nods his assent.

Turns out this wasn’t the lightest of choices, as the teenagers’ emotional problems from the series seem to hit home for Kylo, but it could have been worse, he supposes. Some time later Kylo perches the phone on his knees and reaches for Armitage’s hand. Armitage doesn’t react at first, but after a while he curls his fingers around Kylo’s and lets Kylo brush his thumb over the back of his hand. “This okay?” Kylo asks.

“Yes.”

When Kylo looks at Armitage, the redhead’s eyes are closed. His hand is slim and delicate, almost disappearing in Kylo’s huge one. They keep watching the series but Kylo’s heart is beating fast and he can’t really focus on the plot.

“Just tell me if I overstep your boundaries, all right?” Kylo says. It’s a bit like talking to a patient before proceeding with washing them or changing them. Kylo’s been taught to communicate what he’s about to do, so the patients don’t feel manhandled like lifeless things. Of course, it doesn’t always work the way it should, but Kylo at least tries.

He squeezes Armitage’s hand a bit and smiles when Armitage squeezes back.“I’m going to run my fingers up to your elbow and back, okay?”

Armitage nods. Kylo does it once, twice. Armitage’s freckled skin is silky and soft against Kylo’s cracked palm, and Kylo’d like to touch more of it, but this will do for now. He goes back to holding Armitage’s hand, hoping that Armitage doesn’t mind that Kylo’s skin is too rough.

Halfway through the second episode, when the main teenage protagonists, Adam and Maeve, have managed to help a couple struggling with sex in their impromptu “sex therapy clinic” at their school, Armitage asks, “Do you think they could cure me?”

Okay, so they’re back to this conversation, Kylo thinks. It’s like a boomerang—it must bother Armitage way more than he admits, and he still must not believe Kylo when he says he’s all right with Armitage not wanting sex.

“Do you _need_ to be cured?” he asks, turning his face to Armitage.

Armitage looks back at him. “Don’t I?”

Kylo shrugs. “You like what you like.” Kylo honestly thinks that everyone has their quirks, and certainly he’s not one to judge, not with his need to feel pain in order to come. And sure, this may have been off-putting to some of his partners, but he can’t change it really, or doesn’t want to change it. Same with Armitage. If he gets off to watching Kylo masturbate, that’s fine with Kylo. More than fine. He wishes that Armitage believed him.

Armitage looks down again, watches the screen for a few seconds longer, and then says, “Well, at first I thought it must have been that whole ‘being gay’ thing. Then I thought it was a ‘wrong partner’ thing, or ‘not finding the kinks that work for me’ thing. Eventually, I’ve tried to make my peace with it, and accept that it’s just how I’m wired, and in fact I started enjoying sex as it was for me, without participation. I’ve spent so much time convincing myself that I was fine with it. But now… I don’t know anymore.”

“What’s changed now?” Kylo’s heart begins to beat faster again. Could it be because of him that Armitage is so upset about it? If so, would it be a good sign or a bad one?

Armitage looks at Kylo with scrutiny, as if waiting for Kylo to figure him out, but eventually he shrugs and says, “Nothing. I’m just older, I think. My therapist says that sexuality is not set in stone, that not only is there a sliding scale of being straight or gay or highly sexual or asexual—but it’s also fluctuating and changing throughout our lives. So, it’s possible to identify yourself as an asexual gay man in your twenties, and then to, say, feel more hetero and enjoy sex in your forties. Or the other way around. It’s just not politically correct to say that out loud, because it makes the fight for equal rights seem irrelevant.”

“Huh,” Kylo says. “I’ve never thought about it that way.”

“Not that I agree with her,” Armitage adds. “But let’s just say it’s never been simple for me.”

Kylo nods. “It’s never been simple for me either. Or it has. It’s hard to explain. I used to pursue that—the sex thing. I wanted _just that_. Then, once I had it, I’d be disappointed.” He waves his hand in the air. “I like the release. I seek the release and I want that. It goes by too fast, I guess. It’s why I loved so much what we’ve done. I mean, not yesterday. Before. You made me feel wanted, and the orgasm wasn’t as… lonely?” He shakes his head, feeling that he’s blushing. Why is it so hard to express himself? And how can he talk to Armitage about his past sex experiences, about all the cocks he’s sucked, about all the times he’s let some random man just fuck him in a club’s dirty toilet or in a hotel room? How can he say all that without disgusting Armitage totally?

“I don’t know if I’m making any sense. What I mean is, I used to be with… someone, and we’d have sex. A lot. He loved sex. You’d say that he ‘took joy from it.’” What a stupid, archaic sentence that is, but he really can’t explain it better. For Poe sex was fun, pure pleasure, a bright light in life. Kylo looks to the side, ashamed even though he shouldn’t be. Armitage can’t see his past mistakes or thoughts. “And I don’t perceive sex as a joyful deed. I’m not saying that for me it’s a grave thing, but it has this—I don’t know how to describe it—this _dirty_ layer, you know? It’s debasement, it’s pain, it’s fast and hard. This is how I want it.”

Armitage looks at him, contemplative, and starts asking, “And last night I—?” Then he pauses and changes his mind. “And that was not what _he_ wanted?” he asks softly.

“No.” It wasn’t a deal breaker in the end, although surely it hadn’t helped then. But Kylo’s shed his tears over Poe and he’s not going to start again now, it’s all water under the bridge, has been for a long time.

“So you wanted sweat and blood and your ex wanted to fuck merrily?”

Kylo laughs. He looks at Armitage and feels like kissing him with gratitude. “Yes, that too. With smiles and enjoyment. But not only. He wanted closeness.” He takes a breath. Kylo had wanted it too, but in some other, inexplicable way. “He wanted sweet love and I just… I couldn’t provide it.” He tries to laugh again, to make it less pathetic, even if his chest constricts. “My dark heart is just crippled this way.”

“And mine is just cold like a stone.” Armitage smiles. “What a pair that makes us, huh?”

Kylo smiles, feeling _lighter_ in his chest, and turns back to watching the series, where Adam smashes a vase with his friend’s grandmother's ashes into some guy's head.

Armitage chuckles. “I should smash my father’s ashes just like that.”

“The fuck?” Kylo laughs at Armitage’s dreamy expression.

“Or I could just throw the dust in Millie’s litter box.”

Kylo shakes his head. He finds he doesn’t mind Armitage’s black humor at all. “You are so evil,” he says fondly.

*

Armitage falls asleep in the middle of episode three. He’s snoring softly, curled up on his side, and Kylo scoots down as well, puts the phone on the floor, and wonders for a moment if Armitage really minds cuddling. He would love to have Armitage in his arms, to inhale the scent of his hair and tug him close. That would be the breach of trust, though. He’ll ask Armitage about it some other time, when he’s awake and aware of what’s going on. Eventually, he takes Armitage’s hand back, presses his face to their joined palms, and watches Armitage’s face as he sleeps.

Perhaps Armitage feels Kylo’s eyes on him, or perhaps it’s just some dream that jostles Armitage awake. For a moment he looks panicked, his green eyes wide and hand tightening around Kylo’s, but then he exhales and says, “I’m sorry. It’s late, I should be going.” He makes a move to pull away, but Kylo tugs on his hand.

“Stay?” he murmurs, as he brings Armitage closer with his arm around his waist. Now they’re almost cuddling. Armitage is stiff for a moment, and Kylo wants to sigh and let go because he must have pushed this too far after all, wanting too much, never settling for what he has and ruining everything as usual, but then Armitage relaxes, lies back, and says, “Okay.” He sounds deeply relieved, as if he’s more content than resigned.

“Do you work at Cedar Oak tomorrow?” he asks.

“No,” Kylo says. “Not until Monday, but then I have two sixteen-hour shifts on Monday and Tuesday. I’ll ask Phasma, my supervisor, for Wednesday off for your father’s funeral.”

“How do you stand it?”

“What? The shifts? I bet you work more hours under Snoke’s reign.” Kylo’s heard stories about working for Mr. Snoke. They’re legendary.

Armitage frowns. “No. I mean—yes, of course, I do work a lot, but what I wanted to ask was how do you stand taking care of people like my father?”

“Old and sick?”

“And awful,” Armitage adds.

Kylo shrugs. He’s never thought about it this way. “I don’t really dwell on who they are or what they have done in their lives. I just do my best to care for them and make them comfortable.” He wishes someone had done that for him in the hospital when he was alone and broken after the accident, refusing to see anyone from his family, refusing to talk or eat.

“I wouldn’t be able to do it,” Armitage says, and for a second Kylo thinks that he must have heard Kylo’s last thought and he shudders. Then he collects his thoughts back.

“I’m not doing it by choice. It’s my sentence, remember?” he says. He’s still holding Armitage’s left hand with his own, but he reaches out with his free arm. “Can I?”

And when Armitage doesn’t protest, Kylo threads his fingers through his hair. His red strands are just like Kylo has dreamed they would be—silky and cool between his fingers, like ribbons. Armitage’s eyes close, eyelashes slightly fluttering as his eyelids twitch. His mouth looks soft and sweet and inviting, and Kylo just can’t help himself.

“Can I try something?” he asks, and Armitage murmurs a distant “Uhmmm.”

“I know you hate kisses, but I’d like to check something out if you’ll let me. Push me away the moment you feel uncomfortable or tell me to slow down, okay?”

Armitage stays silent, but it’s as good as an acceptance.

Kylo thinks of his first ever kiss, in school. He must have been twelve or thirteen then, and the girl was older, fifteen. It was a dare, but Ben—disliked and usually avoided by his peers—didn’t mind it being a bet. He let her kiss him, a French kiss, and he still can remember how deeply disappointed he was with the sensation of it. He’d expected something amazing, like a freefall drop, a rollercoaster dive, or at least the tingling sensation one gets at the barbershop when all the attention is focused on you and you can hear the snip-snip-snip sound. Instead it was _wet._ The girl’s mouth felt slimy. She pushed her tongue into Ben’s mouth, and it was revolting and deeply unsettling—so disgusting. Thank God it was over fast and Ben stood there, wanting to wipe his mouth with the back of his sleeve but afraid to appear rude, especially since she looked so smug about the kiss.

“You’re welcome,” she’d said, and Ben had scowled then. “I’ll go get my money. Take care.” She turned to walk away. Ben could finally wipe his mouth.

Now, with Armitage in his arms, Kylo thinks of that first kiss and all the other kisses he’s had later in his life—some demanding and hot, some even more disgusting and wet than that first one, with aggressive tongues and foul breath, and he wonders how he could make it good for Armitage.

He makes sure that his lips are dry and then presses them lightly to Armitage’s, then moves to the side of Armitage’s soft mouth, leaving soft pecks on the corner of his lips. He pulls away slightly and then brushes his lips over Armitage’s again. It’s more stroking with lips than kissing, but it’s warm and delicate and after a while Armitage sighs softly and his lips part a little. Kylo can feel Armitage’s warm, light breath on his skin now. He brings his hand to Armitage’s face and traces the lines that he’s just kissed with his fingers, then nips at Armitage’s lips again lightly next to where his fingers lie.

Armitage stirs, and since they’re pressed really close now Kylo can feel him hardening through his trousers. He pushes Armitage on his back and lies down on top of him, grabbing his wrists and pushing them over Armitage’s head, squeezing. His lips are still pressed to Armitage’s but not moving anymore. He just breathes and thrusts his hips into Armitage, rubbing their clothed dicks together. He only stops moving when he himself gets a bit too worked up. His need to come is getting hard to ignore, and that wasn’t the point of this—this was supposed to be about finding an intimate touch that Armitage could perhaps enjoy.

Throughout the whole experiment Armitage has been totally passive so far, just like during the fuck, but Kylo’s sure that unlike the previous night when Armitage had been upset and unhappy, acting as if he wanted to get hurt on purpose, as if he was punishing himself, this time Armitage is at least content. He’s pliant, soft, embracing whatever Kylo is doing, _trusting_ Kylo.

Eventually, Kylo pulls back and looks at Armitage, who opens his eyes. They are darkened—with desire perhaps—the light green color almost invisible now.

“Do you want to take it further?” Kylo asks.

Armitage blinks. His lips are still parted, color high on his cheeks. He’s still very hard. But he says, “No. Not tonight.”

Kylo shouldn’t, but he still feels the sharp pain of disappointment and rejection.

Perhaps Armitage reads that in Kylo’s eyes because he releases one of his wrists from Kylo’s grasp and moves it to cup Kylo’s cheek. “Next time,” he says. “I want… It felt so good. I want to keep it for a moment. So it doesn’t get spoiled. Just in case.”

He sounds breathless, but not miserable, more in awe in fact, and Kylo lets his disappointment evaporate like air from a popped balloon. “Okay.”

Armitage smiles and traces the shape of Kylo’s mouth with his finger. When his finger slips in between Kylo’s lips, Kylo bites him teasingly and Armitage smiles again.

Kylo rolls over to grab the duvet. “Sleep?” he asks.

“Sleep,” Armitage agrees.

They turn off the lights and once again Kylo brings Armitage closer, but without smothering him, just with their hands touching and their foreheads almost pressed together.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some warnings for this chapter: funeral, references of past child abuse (not sexual), references of mental health problems and illness (depression and other), ableist language ("crazy" used as a description), references to mild D/s and pain-play. Let me know if I haven't tagged anything else that requires warnings!
> 
> Thank you Sillygoose for the beta and always thank you Kyluxtrashcompactor for all the help and believing in this story (and me!)

In the middle of Tuesday’s shift Kylo gets a text from Armitage with directions to the funeral home, and he remembers that he doesn’t own a suit.

“Fuck,” he says aloud, and he’s lucky that both patients he’s tending to at the moment can’t hear well.

If he wants to look decent at the funeral—and he needs to, for Armitage’s sake’s at least—he has to head over to Leia’s to pick up one of his old suits. She’s rarely in the city, though, so he’ll likely just have to see Cee, the housekeeper-slash-Ben’s old nanny-slash-Leia’s sole true life companion, and he won’t have to meet his mother face to face and will spare them both that awkwardness. He silently sends prayers to all the gods, _Please, please, let her be away._

After he’s done with his shift, uneventful enough that he wouldn’t be able to recap his day’s duties if asked, he texts Cee that he’s coming over in a couple of hours to pick something up.

He exits the subway at 96th Street and walks the few blocks to the family town house, feeling as if the pavement is made out of tar—every step’s getting more labored and _sticky,_ and his pace is getting slower and slower. The surrounding buildings close in on Kylo, too, moving closer, engulfing him, wanting to squeeze him like a trash compactor. Here’s the hell of the private primary school he used to go to. There’s the square of pavement where he fell out of a tree and broke his arm when he was seven. He was terrified to confess it to his mother, because he wasn’t supposed to be climbing trees in the first place and he knew he’d be in trouble.

Now, he climbs the nine steps that lead up to the stylish mahogany door nestled in the creamy wall between huge flower pots full of late-blooming yellow fall chrysanthemums and rings the bell, while his insides twist in a knot he won’t be able to untie for the next few days. Unless there’s alcohol, but it would take at least a bottle to settle his nerves.

Cee opens the door and says with emphasis, “Ben! So good to see you! Your mother is upstairs. In the kitchen.”

She opens the door wider and Kylo takes a deep breath, feeling the knot in his stomach tighten. If Leia’s home, no drug in the world is going to help with his anxiety. He follows Cee through the long hall, ducking his head before he sees himself in the huge floor-to-ceiling mirrors on his right. He decides to look down instead, counting the small shiny black tiles interspersing the white matte ones on the floor. There are sixteen rows of them, he knows, because he’s counted them all, just like the stairs, so many times over, every step on a tile sucking him further into the house. Cee is in her seventies now, but still she opts for the stairs rather than the indoor elevator to take them two flights up and into the spacious, white, light-drenched kitchen. At least it’s not the main living room, Kylo thinks, where he’d have to sit on one of the ridiculous sofas that are miles away from each other and talk loudly enough for his voice to carry through the vast space. Not that he’s a quiet person; his voice is always loud and imposing, no matter how he wants to sound. The other option, which is the family room, would be even worse, though, as Kylo doesn’t have the strength to pretend he’s part of this family anymore. Not after he stomped on everyone’s hearts, set his whole life on fire, and left only the ashes behind. He doesn’t want to know if Leia has taken his photos off the wall, buried the evidence that he’s her son. He doesn’t need to see it displayed for him that starkly.

“Ben, honey!” Leia says, standing up from where she was seated at the kitchen table with her laptop and piles of documents spread all over the maple wood. She takes off her reading glasses and approaches him, reaching out to his cheek. He bends down so she can give him a kiss and a one-armed hug. She takes a step back and smiles. “You look well!”

He supposes he might. Definitely better than when she saw him last, half-drunk, with the scar on his face still angry red and hair shaved off where they had stitched up his head. He closes his eyes for a moment and says, “You look well, too.”

“Sit down. Do you want some coffee? Cee can make it.”

“No, thanks.” He would like some coffee but he doesn’t want Cee to make it for him. He’s grown up used to being served like this, but somehow it doesn’t feel right anymore. “I’ve come to pick up one of my suits, if that’s all right with you?” If they are even still here. But he supposes they are; surely Leia doesn’t need the space in the closets on his floor. She’s living in this ridiculous six-story town house all by herself right now. Han is God-knows-where, probably Singapore, but maybe Argentina or someplace else. Kylo can’t keep track.

“Of course it’s all right!” Leia says, sitting back behind her laptop. “They are _your_ suits.”

He swallows, bites the inside of his lip, and looks away. He doesn’t feel like he owns anything in this house anymore, not even his old clothes.

“Sit with me for a moment.” She pushes a chair back for him and he lowers himself onto the white cushion, preparing mentally for interrogation. “What do you need the suit for? New job?”

“A funeral,” he says. It sounds so gloomy that he has to fight the urge to laugh.

Leia’s eyes immediately shine with concern. “Anyone I know?”

Kylo shakes his head. “A patient from Cedar Oak.” And at her lost expression he adds, “That’s the facility where I do my community service.”

“Oh,” she says. “Were you friends with this person?”

“No, but I got close to his… family.” Silence falls after that, interspersed with the ticking of an old-fashioned clock on the wall. Kylo will suffocate if one of them doesn’t speak soon, so he says, “I’m accompanying his son there.” Now he needs to finish, needs to explain his relationship to the son, because he can already see the first glimmer of hope on Leia’s face.

“Is it someone—” She cuts off, clearly selecting her words carefully. She’s learned her lesson with Kylo and doesn’t want a shouting match like the last time Kylo—Ben then—said he had _someone._ “Is this someone you’re seeing?”

And is Armitage someone Kylo is _seeing_? How can Kylo explain whatever links him to Armitage? _Hey Mom, this is someone who watched me jerk off, brought me tea and a light meal when I was sick, and whom I tried to fuck but couldn’t stay hard long enough to finish the job?_ Hardly sounds like a stellar relationship, even if Kylo is smiling at the thought of Armitage.

“I don’t know,” he says in the end, and something in this sentence, completely out of the blue, makes him go teary-eyed. And of course Leia notices, because she always does. She’s just never been too good at reacting to Ben’s emotional ups and downs; she gets angry with him instead, or avoids him as if she’s afraid of her own child and the things he might do. Kylo doesn’t blame her. But this time she doesn’t avert her eyes or pretend that she hasn’t noticed. Instead she reaches for Kylo’s hand and gently rubs her thumb over his palm.

Kylo bites the inside of his mouth to keep himself steady, to prevent the tears from spilling. He looks away, controlling his breathing. “I’m gonna go get that suit now,” he says, once he thinks that his voice is steady enough to continue.

“All right,” Leia says and takes her hand back. “Go and look for it and I’ll be here if you’d like to chat with me more.”

Something pings in her laptop, but she doesn’t react the way she would when Kylo was still living here. Back then Leia’s work was always top priority, no matter the time of day, or night, or year. Family holidays, dinners—nothing couldn’t be interrupted by her work. He remembers loathing Leia’s phone and her email, as if they were the culprits taking his mother away from him, as if it weren’t her own choices but some outside force causing their relationship to crumble.

He leaves her to check on the message while he climbs the stairs up to the fourth floor where his room once was—and still is. Nothing’s changed in it since he moved out. The only difference is that his huge bed is properly made and everything’s tidied so the whole room looks as if it’s ready to be photographed for a design magazine. Kylo doesn’t look around, just walks straight to the closet to search through the clothes. Everything’s still here, too; his old jeans are folded neatly and his T-shirts are hanging next to his jackets and suits. He picks out a dark gray suit, hoping it still fits him, and takes a white shirt and a dark gray tie. At least he’s well trained in knowing what goes with what. It still feels like stealing from his old self, though. He’s about to leave the room, but the anxiety about the suit not fitting him starts to spike, so he goes to the bathroom to at least try the jacket on. It fits—barely. He must have gotten bigger despite not eating much. Perhaps all the manual labor at Cedar Oak has given his muscles more bulk. He looks into the mirror and shudders, because the face staring back doesn’t look like the one he’d expect here. He’s not Ben anymore and he doesn’t belong in this house. His hands clench on the edge of the sink. God, he wishes he could rip the sink to pieces, crush shards of sharp ceramic until blood flows from his hands and drips onto the floor.

He takes a deep breath to calm himself.

On his way out he stops in the kitchen again. “I’ll be going now,” he says, lingering in the doorway.

“Oh?” Leia says, getting up from behind the laptop. She walks over to him and looks up. “Will you… Would you come again sometime? Or call me?”

Kylo swallows and thinks that maybe he’s ready to do so, so he nods. “I will. Mom.” The word sticks in his throat just a little, but it doesn’t hurt the way he thought it would, saying this out loud. His stomach is still in knots, but saying this doesn’t make the strings of tension pull any tighter than they already have.

“I hope it’ll work out with your friend,” she says.

“Me too,” he says, and he means it. He gives her a one-handed hug again before fleeing the house, feeling chased by invisible demons. On the train he shakes his shoulders as if he’s casting off some vague burden, but it’s still not enough. He can only breathe again when he’s back in his shitty apartment. He hangs the suit on a doorframe and then sits down on the floor, his legs outstretched, his eyes closed.

“Congratulations, Kylo,” he says aloud, and laughs. It sounds stupid in his empty space. “You’ve made it. You saw your mother and made it through the meeting without buying any alcohol.” He shakes his head at himself and rolls his eyes. He could really do with a nice cup of tea and not a bottle of vodka, he thinks with mild surprise.

 

* * *

 

When Kylo gets to the funeral home on Wednesday’s morning, some people are already gathered there and he has to push through the small crowd to get to Armitage, who’s at the front, dressed in a tight-fitting suit. He’s standing straight, his face impassive, but when Kylo gets near him he notices the sickly green color of Armitage’s skin and a sheen of sweat on his temple despite the cool temperature in the venue.

“Hey,” Kylo says, standing next to Armitage, who acknowledges him with a slight nod. “Are you all right?”

It seems like a stupid question to ask at a funeral, but Armitage really doesn’t look fine. Armitage shakes his head, just a bit. “I must’ve caught that bug you had. Was up all night. But I think I’m better now.”

Kylo places his hand at Armitage’s waist, supporting him discreetly. From outside it might look as if he’s just guiding a friend, but Armitage can lean on his arm a little, and Kylo hopes that it’s helping.

The funeral is quicker than Kylo expected—there are speeches from Brendol’s old colleagues, but only a few, and Armitage doesn’t give an eulogy, earning murmurs and odd stares from the guests.

They walk outside, hiding from the cold rain under umbrellas, and Kylo’s surprised to see that instead of a traditional grave there’s a place in the wall for Brendol’s cremated remains, row B-23, and there isn’t even space to place the flowers, so they pile them all on the ground. Kylo keeps the umbrella over Armitage’s head and supports him with his arm still around his waist. Armitage doesn’t throw his hand off and Kylo doesn’t give a fuck what all the old people around them think of him and his relationship to Armitage, but he knows his way around—if he’s forced to—so he utters the meaningless pleasantries and says, “Thank you for paying your respects,” and all the other appropriate words, so that Armitage doesn’t have to.

The reception afterwards is equally short and somewhat gloomy. The old colleagues of the colonel are all serious and stiff, almost hostile, as they say their condolences to Armitage, gathered over a glass of wine and a few cookies the funeral home has provided. They all disperse soon after, leaving Armitage alone with Kylo and the funeral home’s staff, working soundlessly as they clean up after the reception. Armitage goes to sign some final papers and settle the bill, and then he and Kylo are both outside on the street where it’s still raining.

“Do you want to head home? I can call you a cab,” Kylo says, but Armitage shakes his head.

“I need coffee.”

No wonder, Kylo thinks, as Armitage still looks pale and on the verge of collapsing.

“Should we head back to the city, then?” Kylo asks.

“How about there?” Armitage points to the other side of the street where an old-fashioned neon sign flashes “Clementine’s Diner.” It looks like one of those places where tourists go in order to have a taste of real American food, but it’s cold and wet and Kylo doesn’t mind having some hot coffee and maybe a burger and fries, so he nods. He opens his umbrella for Armitage again and leads him to the other side of the street, not minding the red lights and cars honking at them.

Inside, the diner looks nice and clean—way better than Kylo has anticipated. It’s homey and not too over-the-top with its American heritage décor. The hostess leads them to a comfortable booth by the window, and Armitage plops on it inelegantly and leans back, letting his head rest on the back of the bench seat with his eyes closed.

“What can I get you two?” The server places a pitcher of cold water on the table and looks at Kylo expectantly from over her notebook.

“Coffee, please,” Armitage says, not opening his eyes. “And maybe some orange juice.”

Kylo orders hamburger for himself. He looks at Armitage, who shakes his head, but Kylo decides that Armitage really needs more than just some juice and caffeine, so he adds an order of scrambled eggs and a side of toast, too, just in case Armitage would like something lighter while he recovers from his stomach bug.

“He wouldn’t let me see my mother, back when she was still alive,” Armitage says out of the blue, but Kylo knows exactly who Armitage is talking about. “The last time I saw her, I was seven. He said she was mentally unstable—"crazy," were his exact words—too sick to care for a child. She died one month before I turned eighteen and could go see her on my own. She died in a _facility_. Similar to the one I put him in.”

Kylo keeps quiet, refraining from arguing that Cedar Oak isn’t _that_ bad once you get used to the old equipment and the shabby look.

“I was never good enough for him, either. Not fit enough. Queer. A disgrace. Too much like _her_. He brought me with him to the States, where he was from, but I was an inconvenience for him, really, a sickly kid he had to care for, and not strong enough to even take a blow like a soldier.”

Kylo flinches but Armitage’s eyes are still closed. He can’t see Kylo’s face contorting in anger and his hands balling up into fists as he continues. “I tried to cut ties with him when I got into college. I had a scholarship and could earn extra money teaching math, and later doing some consulting jobs, but it’s never that easy, is it?”

Armitage opens his eyes to look at Kylo, who shakes his head. “No,” he agrees. It’s never been easy for him to cut ties with Leia, either, or with Han, or Uncle Luke.

Armitage hunches over the table and takes a napkin out of the box, rubs it absentmindedly over the glassy surface of the table. “I remember her—my mother. She had long hair, wavy and dark, not orange like mine or his. I remember her crying a lot. But she’d smile when I’d ask her about it and say it was nothing, that there was rain in her eyes and she had to let the drops fall. She always had a smile for me.”

Kylo wants to say that he can very much relate to the “rain in the eyes” feeling—or maybe, in his case, a storm in his heart—but he doesn’t want to interrupt.

“I thought it must have been my fault, back then. That I must have done something terrible to make my mom go away. He let me think that, you know. The only thing I have left of her is a copy of Marquez’ _100 Years of Solitude_ and some slides—you know, the old ones wrapped in plastic frames—with photos of her and Brendol on a trip to France.”

“Does she look happy in those?” Kylo asks, and then wants to hit himself in the face, because doesn’t that imply that Armitage indeed was the one responsible for his mother’s tears?

“I guess,” Armitage says. “What’s your mother like?” It sounds like he wants to deflect any further questions Kylo might ask. He takes a sip of the coffee the server brought some time ago, while Kylo ponders the question.

“Driven,” he finally says. “Strong. Always busy. She comes from money. She expects things to be a certain way.”

Armitage’s lip twitches in a small smile. “I figured.” He gestures to Kylo. “This is a fine suit, and you’re obviously used to this kind of attire, and the social graces of funerals.”

Kylo grimaces. “This isn’t my life.”

“And what is?” Armitage asks. This question should feel offensive, judgmental and patronizing, or even mocking, because if Kylo’s life is being an aide in a state-run facility and renting a one-bedroom without furniture or plates, then he must really be _something_. But it seems like Armitage is genuinely asking.

Kylo tries to come up with something, but he is lost. “I don’t know,” he finally says.

Armitage smiles. “You know that this sentence was forbidden in my house?”

Kylo’s opens his eyes wider. “What? You weren’t allowed to admit you didn’t know something?”

“Nope.” Armitage grins, but there’s a hint of that strange energy underlined with hurt that Kylo can trace now in Armitage.

Armitage’s gaze drops to the cup of coffee he’s holding. He rubs his thumb over the cup’s rim.

“Was he…” Kylo doesn’t know how to phrase the question, but Armitage’s earlier remark makes his stomach queasy and he just has to know more. “Was he violent?”

Armitage’s eyes snap back to Kylo’s, and he stiffens. “Are you asking me if he beat me? Then the answer is no—not much.” And then he ads, as if in afterthought, “But, as my therapist says, there are other types of abuse. Not just physical ones.” His voice is soft but laden with hatred.

Kylo wants to nod in agreement, and maybe ask more, but their food arrives, and for a moment they focus on their plates, eating in silence. Kylo’s taking huge bites of his burger, which is unexpectedly good, while Armitage nibbles on his toast.

“What about you?” Armitage asks. “Did your parents fuck you up, too?”

“My parents are actually great,” Kylo says defensively, surprising himself, because it feels as if he’s realized it just this very moment. “They aren’t good together as a couple, and I suppose that they’ve made their mistakes, but—yeah, they are great. They love each other in their weird way. And they love me, too, I know that. In my case the problem is just me—it’s all me. I’m a failure all on my own. I failed at being a son, at being a decent human being for that matter.”

He’s grateful that Armitage doesn’t deny it. “Is your _failure_ related to this?” he asks instead, pointing to Kylo’s scar.

And yes, yes, it is, but the accident was just a culmination of everything that Kylo had ever done in his life, so he just looks down and doesn’t respond.

“Do you need anything? More coffee?” the server asks, and both Kylo and Armitage startle at her sudden presence.

“Yes. Thank you,” Kylo mumbles. It’s still early and they’ll both need more coffee to get through this day.

 

* * *

 

Despite all the caffeine they've inhaled Armitage falls asleep in the cab on the way back home. His head lolls onto Kylo’s shoulder, and Kylo props Armitage up a little and hugs him closer.

“Long day?” the driver asks with a knowing smile, and Kylo scowls, scaring the guy, who gets back immediately to watching the road closely.

Kylo thinks of the impression he must have made and sighs. “You wouldn’t believe,” he says. “Long week, I guess. Or life.”

The driver relaxes somewhat. “Tell me about it.” He nods and proceeds to talk sports and “annoying Uber drivers,” but Kylo mostly tunes him out, focusing instead on making sure that Armitage is comfortable. Since the ride takes over an hour in the afternoon traffic, Kylo’s at least positive that Armitage can get some needed rest.

“Are you coming in?” Armitage askes when they arrive. His voice is still groggy from sleeping and his hair mussed from where he leaned on Kylo’s shoulder.

“Yes,” Kylo says. He was planning on it, as long as Armitage wanted him to.

At home Armitage greets Millicent and then almost immediately goes to his desk, opens his laptop, and starts working. “Sorry,” he says. “I need to catch up on a couple of today’s things. Can you… make yourself comfortable?”

Kylo’s not surprised that Armitage feels the need to work on his day off, and right after his father’s funeral, but he’s surprised that apparently Armitage doesn’t mind Kylo just hanging around in his space, or doesn’t feel the need to entertain Kylo as a guest. It sends something warm through Kylo’s body. He settles on the couch with his phone and downloads a free drawing app he wanted to try out. It’s useless on the phone and without a stylus, though, so he switches to his Kindle app and starts reading a manual on the care of patients confined to bed—something he’s required to read for his future work. That is, for his work if he decides to actually stay at Cedar Oak. Most of the information in the manual is obvious to him, as he’s been doing the job for some time now, but there are many new situations described as well, and he makes sure he rereads the more difficult passages at least a few times over and memorizes them.

Some time later Millicent jumps on his lap and settles high on his chest, almost blocking his view of the phone. “Umpf, you,” Kylo says when the orange fur tickles his nose. He smiles. Between the tapping of Armitage’s laptop keys and Millicent’s purring, it feels very much like home. It’s as if he’s been accepted as a member of this odd, orange-haired, prickly family.

After two hours Kylo’s done with the reading and getting tired, and Armitage hasn’t moved an inch from his laptop, so Kylo decides that enough is enough and gets up, walking to stand behind Armitage’s chair. He places both of his hands on Armitage’s shoulders, pressing down. He kneads the tense muscles and Armitage actually sighs and leans back, allowing his head to rest on Kylo’s chest.

“Are you done yet?” Kylo asks, although he knows that if Armitage is anything like Leia with his work attitude, then the answer is always going to be "no."

Armitage makes a noncommittal humming noise.

“Come on,” Kylo says. “It’s your day off, you’ll catch up tomorrow.” He remembers what his mother would do when she couldn’t finish her work at night and ads, “You can set your alarm for early in the morning; no one will bother you at 6:00 a.m. anyway.”

Armitage sighs. “I guess.” He pushes the laptop away. “I wish I could have sex with you,” he says.

Kylo arches his eyebrow. He’s gotten used to Armitage’s blunt ways of mentioning sex so he’s not surprised. He hasn’t been thinking of it today, but now that Armitage has mentioned it… “You wish?” Kylo asks, gently kissing the side of Armitage’s neck.

“I’d like to tie you up, hurt you, and make you cry,” Armitage whispers, and something hot uncoils in Kylo’s stomach. “Would you like that?”

Kylo tries not to give away how much this one sentence has affected him. They haven’t discussed anything like that before, and there’s so much about Armitage’s sexual preferences that Kylo still doesn’t know—or maybe Armitage himself doesn’t know—but Kylo’s willing to try almost anything. “Yes,” he says, closing his eyes and thinking of all the ways Armitage could make him feel good, of all the ways he could hurt him and make him feel even better. “I’d like just that.”

Not tonight maybe, he thinks, almost shuddering. Not in a time of grieving. The failure of the night after Brendol’s death is still bitterly vivid in Kylo’s memory. He wants Armitage to be in full control if he’s going to trust him entirely.

“I want you to hurt me,” Kylo says, feeling his insides light up. “I want you to hurt me so much. But… can we do that some other time? Can I come on you instead, tonight?” he asks.

“Fuck,” Armitage says in response, and it sounds like cracking fire. “I’ve imagined you splashing your come all over my back and ass so many times.”

Kylo feels lightheaded. “You have?”

“Yes.” Armitage breathes out and leans back even further, allowing his eyes to close. His orange hair feels soft where it brushes Kylo's lips. Kylo is so hard already it’s ridiculous.

Armitage gets up and takes Kylo’s hand.

“Turn around,” he commands. He pushes Kylo to the wall and makes him place his hands flat on the wall, then reaches around to unbutton his trousers. The fine material pools around Kylo’s ankles.

“I like you in a suit,” Armitage says, biting at Kylo’s oversized ear.

“You do?” Kylo asks, and when Armitage presses him closer to the wall, grabbing a fistful of his hair, he gasps, “Oh, yes, you do.”

Armitage rubs his still clothed erection over Kylo’s exposed ass and pulls harder on Kylo’s hair. “One day,” he says. “One day I will fuck you, and I will hurt you, and you will love every second of it. You’ll beg me for more.”

Kylo has no doubt that he will, but for now he can only gasp out.

“Let’s change places.” Armitage maneuvers them both so he’s the one facing the wall. His long, pale fingers look so elegant pressed to the gray paint. “Do what you wanted to. Come on me.”

Kylo swiftly undoes Armitage’s trousers, until his soft pale buttocks are on display, and hitches the shirt up, to have access to Armitage’s slim waist and back. He places his aching cock on Armitage’s ass, just above the crack, and pumps hard, feeling that he’s slipping away, that he needs to come and paint Armitage’s smooth skin with his hot release. He twists Armitage’s shirt up in his fist, wanting the circulation to his hand to be cut off, almost ready to burst, and then Armitage reaches up and behind, taking a fistful of Kylo’s hair again and tugging so hard Kylo sees stars, and God, oh God, this is what Kylo needs, the pain is so exquisite, the pull on his scalp is everything he’s ever wanted, and he’s coming, his come splashing over Amitage’s back, white threads almost the same shade as his alabaster skin but still visible, still there.

“Yes,” Armitage says. “My Kylo.” He hasn't come but he's panting, too. “My Kylo.”

Afterwards Armitage goes to shower, and while Kylo waits for his turn he makes them both cereal with almond milk for dinner, not because he can’t be bothered to cook but because this kind of indulgent behavior makes him think of holidays and Christmas and skipping school when his parents were away. It’s comforting to sit on the couch with Armitage, eating cereal and exchanging remarks on Brendol’s “friends.”

“And the one that looked like a huge hairy suitcase?” Kylo asks.

Armitage snickers, “Oh, yes, Major Boob.” He giggles even more. “Shit, no, his real name isn’t Boob, obviously; that’s what I called him in my head because of that chest of his. He was so awful. What a dick. All of them were.” He shakes his head.

Kylo still can’t stop laughing. “A hairy suitcase with boobs, you are so right.”

“I can’t,” Armitage says. “This image is now forever ingrained in my brain and it’s all your fault!” He gets up, and the large gray towel he was wrapped in spreads from his arms like a cape. He looks regal even with his hair still damp and the ends of it curling slightly upwards and his hairy calves showing from under the towel’s split. “I’m going to bed now.”

Kylo should probably head home, but Armitage is still talking. “But… You don’t have to go to sleep yet if you're not tired. You can do whatever and come to bed later. Because you’re staying, aren’t you?”

“Yes, yes,” Kylo says. Billions of thoughts are flowing through his mind, almost making him dizzy. Has Armitage asked him to stay  _for good_? Or is it just for tonight? Have they reached the stage of their relationship when Kylo’s invited to do whatever he wants in Armitage’s space even if Armitage isn't near? Does it mean that they are “together” now?

“I’m tired, too,” Kylo says, to break the sudden awkward silence. “I’ll just shower first.”

When he slips under the soft covers a few minutes later, Armitage is already asleep. He smells of verbena and almond oil, and Kylo snuggles closer to get lost in that sweet and fresh smell. But when he closes his eyes, he just stays in the moment. And savors it.

 

 

 

 


End file.
